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KOSTES   PALAMAS 

LIFE  IMMOVABLE 

FIRST  PART 

TRANSLATED  BY 

ARISTIDES  E.  PHOUTRIDES 


WITH  INTRODUCTION  AND  NOTES 
BY  THE  TRANSLATOR 


'  ; 


CAMBRIDGE 

HARVARD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

1919 


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COPYRIGHT,  1919 
HARVARD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 


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^  MRS.  EVELETH  WINSLOW 

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2  THIS  VOLUME  OF  TRANSLATIONS  IS  DEDICATED 

^  AS  A  TOKEN  OF  HER  APPRECIATION 

*-^  OF  THE  POET'S  WORK 


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PREFACE 

The  translations  contained  in  the  present  volume  were 
undertaken  since  the  beginning  of  the  great  war  when 
communication  with  Greece  and  access  to  my  sources 
of  information  were  always  difficult  and  at  times  im- 
possible. In  hastening  to  present  them  to  the  English 
speaking  public  before  discussing  them  with  the  poet 
himself  and  my  friends  in  Athens,  I  am  only  yielding 
to  the  urgent  requests  of  friends  on  both  sides  of  the 
Atlantic  who  have  regarded  my  delay  with  justifiable 
impatience.  I  am  thoroughly  conscious  of  the  short- 
comings that  were  bound  to  result  from  the  above  diffi- 
culties and  from  the  interruption  caused  by  my  two 
years'  service  in  the  American  army;  and  were  it  not 
for  the  encouragement  and  loyal  assistance  of  those  in- 
terested in  my  work  it  would  have  been  impossible  for 
me  to  bring  it  at  all  before  the  public.  My  earnest  effort 
has  been  to  be  as  faithful  to  the  poet  as  possible,  and  for 
this  reason  I  have  not  attempted  to  render  rime,  a  dan- 
gerous obstacle  to  a  natural  expression  of  the  poet's 
thought  and  diction.  But  I  hope  that  the  critics  will 
judge  my  work  as  that  of  a  mere  pioneer.    I  know  there 


vi  PREFACE 

is  value  in  the  theme;  and  if  this  value  is  made  suffi- 
ciently evident  to  arouse  the  interest  of  poetry  lovers  in 
the  achievements  of  contemporary  Greece  I  shall  have 
reaped  my  best  reward, 

I  wish  to  express  my  thanks  to  Dr.  Christos  N.  Lam- 
brakis  of  Athens  for  the  information  which  he  has  always 
been  willing  to  furnish  me  regarding  various  dark  points 
in  the  work  translated;  to  Mrs.  Eveleth  Winslow  of 
Washington  for  many  valuable  suggestions  and  crit- 
icisms; and  above  all  to  Professor  Clifford  H.  Moore  of 
Harvard  University  for  the  interest  he  has  shown  in  the 
work  and  the  readiness  with  which  he  has  found  time  in 
the  midst  of  his  duties  to  take  charge  of  my  manuscript 
in  my  absence  and  to  assist  in  seeing  it  through  the 

press. 

Aristides  E.  Phoutrides. 

Washington,  D.  C. 
July  7, 1919. 


CONTENTS 


INTRODUCTION 

KosTES  Palamas,  a  New  World-Poet 3 

Life  Immovable,  First  Part 53 

TRANSLATIONS 

Life  Immovable,  —  Introductory  Poem 73 

FATHERLANDS 

Fatherlands,  I-XII 77 

The  Sonnets 90 

Epiphany 91 

Makaria 92 

The  Market  Place 93 

Loves 94 

When  Polylas  Died 95 

To  Petros  Basilikos 96 

Soldier  and  Maker 97 

The  Athena  Relief 98 

The  Huntress  Relief 99 

A  Father's  Song 100 

To  the  Poet  L.  Maviles 101 

Imagination 102 

Makaria's  Death 103 

To  Palus  for  his  *'  Iliad  " 104 

Hail  to  the  Rime 105 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

THE  RETURN 

Dedication 109 

The  Temple 113 

The  Hut 115 

The  Ring 117 

The  Cord  Grass  Festival 120 

The  Fairy 122 

Out  in  the  Open  Light 124 

First  Love 125 

The  :NL4.dman 126 

OuTR  Home 128 

The  Dead 130 

The  Comrade 132 

Rhapsody 134 

Idyl 137 

At  the  Windmill 140 

What  the  Lagoon  Says 142 

Pinks 143 

Ruins 145 

Penelope 146 

A  New  Ode  by  the  Old  Alcaeus 147 

FRAGMENTS  FROM  THE  SONG  TO  THE  SUN 

Imagination 155 

The  Gods 157 

My  God 158 

Helen 159 

The  Lyre 160 

Giants'  Shadows 161 

The  Holy  Virgin  in  Hell 162 

Sunrise 163 

Double  Song 164 


CONTENTS  ix 

The  Sun-Born 165 

On  the  Heights  of  Paradise 166 

The  Str,vnger 167 

An  Orphic  Hymn 168 

The  Poet 169 

Krishna's  Words 170 

The  Tower  of  the  Sun 171 

A  Mourning  Song 174 

Prayer  of  the  First-Born  Men 175 

Thought  of  the  Last-Born  Men 176 

Moloch 177 

All  the  Stars 178 

Arrows 179 

\TERSES  OF  A  FAMILIAR  TUNE 

The  Beginning 183 

The  Paralytic  on  the  River's  Bank 185 

The  Simple  Song 189 

Three  Kisses 191 

ISMENE 192 

Thoughts  of  Early  Dawn 193 

To  a  :Maiden  Who  Died 199 

To  the  Sinner 200 

A  Talk  with  the  Flowers 202 

To  My  Wife 206 

The  Answer 208 

Thought 211 

The  Sinner 214 

The  End 217 

THE  PALM  TREE 

The  Palm  Tree 221 


INTRODUCTION 


KOSTES  PALAMAS^ 
A  NEW  WORLD-POET 

And  then  I  saw  that  I  am  the  poet,  surely  a  poet  among  many,  a 
mere  soldier  oj  the  verse,  bid  always  the  poet  who  desires  to  close 
vnthin  his  verse  the  longings  and  questionings  of  the  universal 
man,  and  the  cares  and  fanaticism  of  the  citizen.  I  may  not  he  a 
worthy  citizen;  hut  it  cannot  he  that  I  am  the  poet  of  myself 
alone.  I  am  the  poet  of  my  age  and  of  my  race.  And  what  I 
hold  vnthin  me  cannot  he  divided  from  the  world  without. 

KosTEs  Palamas,  Preface  to  The  Twelve  Words  of 
the  Gypsy. 

Kostes  Palamas  .  .  .  is  raised  not  only  above  other  poets  of 
Modem  Greece  but  above  all  the  poets  of  contemporary  Europe. 
Though  he  is  not  the  most  known  .  .  .  he  is  incontestably  the 
greatest.  Eugene  Clement,  Revue  des  Etudes  Grecques. 

^  This  essay  is  republished,  with  a  few  changes,  from  Poet  Lore, 
vol.  xxviii,  no.  1,  pp.  78-104. 


A  NEW  WORLD-POET 


THE  STRUGGLE 

KosTES  Palamas!  a  name  I  hated  once  with  all  the 
sincerity  of  a  young  and  blind  enthusiast  as  the  name  of 
a  traitor.  This  is  no  exaggeration.  I  was  a  student  in 
the  third  class  of  an  Athenian  Gymnasion  in  1901,  when 
the  Gospel  Riots  stained  with  blood  the  streets  of 
Athens.  The  cause  of  the  riots  was  a  translation  of  the 
New  Testament  into  the  people's  tongue  by  Alexandros 
Pallis,  one  of  the  great  leaders  of  the  literary  renais- 
sance of  Modern  Greece.  The  translation  appeared 
in  series  in  the  daily  newspaper  Akropolis.  The 
students  of  the  University,  animated  by  the  fiery 
speeches  of  one  of  their  Professors,  George  Mistriotes, 
the  bulwark  of  the  unreconcilable  Purists,  who  would 
model  the  modern  language  of  Greece  after  the  ancient, 
regarded  this  translation  as  a  treacherous  profanation 
both  of  the  sacred  text  and  of  the  national  speech.  The 
demotikists,  branded  under  the  name  of  MaXXtapoI 
"  the  hairy  ones,"  were  thought  even  by  serious  people 


6  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

to  be  national  traitors,  the  creators  of  a  mysterious 
propaganda  seeking  to  crush  the  aspirations  of  the 
Greek  people  by  showing  that  their  language  was  not 
the  ancient  Greek  language  and  that  they  were  not  the 
heirs  of  Ancient  Greece. 

Three  names  among  the  "  Hairy  Ones  "  were  the 
object  of  universal  detestation:  John  Psicharis,  the 
well  known  Greek  Professor  in  Paris,  the  author  of 
many  works  and  of  the  first  complete  Grammar  of  the 
people's  idiom;  Alexandros  Pallis,  the  translator  of  the 
Iliad  and  of  the  New  Testament;  and  Kostes  Palamas, 
secretary  of  the  University  of  Athens,  the  poet  of  this 
"  anti-nationalistic  "  faction.  Against  them  the  bit- 
terest invectives  were  cast.  The  University  students 
and,  with  them,  masses  of  people  who  joined  without 
understanding  the  issue,  paraded  uncontrollable  through 
the  streets  of  Athens,  broke  down  the  establishment  of 
the  Akropolis,  in  which  Pallis'  vulgate  version  ap- 
peared, and  demanded  in  all  earnestness  of  the  Metro- 
politan that  he  should  renew  the  medieval  measure  of 
excommunication  against  all  followers  of  the  "  Hairy 
Ones." 

Fortunately,  the  head  of  the  Greek  Church  in  Athens 
saved  the  Institution  which  he  represented  from  an 
indelible  shame  by  resisting  the  popular  cries  to  the  end. 


A  NEW  WORLD-POET  *l 

But  the  rioters  became  so  violent  that  arms  had  to  be 
used  against  them,  resulting  in  the  death  of  eight  stu- 
dents and  the  wounding  of  about  sixty  others.  This  was 
utilized  by  politicians  opposing  the  government:  fiery 
speeches  denouncing  the  measures  adopted  were  heard 
in  Parliament;  the  victims  were  eulogized  as  great 
martyrs  of  a  sacred  cause;  and  popular  feeling  ran  so 
high  that  the  Cabinet  had  to  resign  and  the  Metro- 
politan was  forced  to  abdicate  and  die  an  exile  in  a 
monastery  on  the  Island  of  Salamis.  It  was  then  that 
I  first  imbibed  hatred  against  the  "  Hairy  Ones  "  and 
Palamas. 

About  two  years  later,  I  had  entered  the  University 
of  Athens  when  another  riot  was  started  by  the  students 
after  another  fiery  speech  delivered  by  our  puristic  hero, 
Professor  Mistriotes,  against  the  performance  of  Aes- 
chylus' Oresteia  at  the  Royal  Theatre  in  a  popular 
translation  made  by  Mr.  Soteriades  and  considered  too 
vulgar  for  puristic  ears.  This  time,  too,  the  riot  was 
quelled,  but  not  until  one  innocent  passer-by  had  been 
killed.  I  am  ashamed  to  confess  that  on  that  occasion 
I  was  actually  among  the  rioters.  It  was  the  day  after 
the  riot  that  I  first  saw  Palamas  himself.  He  was  stand- 
ing before  one  of  the  side  entrances  to  the  University 
building  when  my  companion  showed  him  to  me  with  a 
hateful  sneer: 


«  KOSTES  PALAMAS 


"Look  at  him!" 
"  Who  is  it  ?  " 


The  worst  of  them  all,  Palamas!  " 
I  paused  for  a  moment  to  have  a  full  view  of  this  no- 
torious criminal.  Rather  short  and  compact  in  frame, 
he  stood  with  eyes  directed  towards  the  sunlight  stream- 
ing on  the  marble  covered  ground  of  the  yard.  He  held 
a  cane  with  both  his  hands  and  seemed  to  be  thinking. 
Once  or  twice  he  glanced  at  the  wall  as  if  he  were  reading 
something,  but  again  he  turned  towards  the  sunlight 
with  an  expression  of  sorrow  on  his  face.  There  was 
nothing  conspicuous  about  him,  nothing  aggressive. 
His  rather  pale  face,  furrowed  brow,  and  meditative 
attitude  were  marks  of  a  quiet,  retiring,  modest  man. 
Do  traitors  then  look  so  human  ?  From  the  end  of  the 
colonnade,  I  watched  him  carefully  until  he  turned 
away  and  entered  the  building.  Then  I  followed  him 
and  walked  up  to  the  same  entrance;  on  the  wall,  an 
inscription  was  scratched  in  heavy  pencil  strokes: 

"  Down  with  Palamas!  the  bought  one!  the  traitor!  " 

At  last  my  humanity  was  aroused,  and  the  first  rays 
of  sympathy  began  to  dispel  my  hatred.  That  remorse- 
less inscription  could  not  be  true  of  this  man,  I  thought, 
and  I  hurried  to  the  library  to  read  some  of  his  work  for 


A  NEW  WORLD-POET  9 

the  first  time  that  I  might  form  an  opinion  about  him 
myseK.  Unfortunately,  the  verses  on  which  I  happened 
to  come  were  too  deep  for  my  intellect,  and  I  had  not  the 
patience  to  read  them  twice.  I  was  so  absolutely  sure  of 
the  power  of  my  mind  that  I  ascribed  my  lack  of  under- 
standing to  the  poet.  Then  his  poems  were  so  different 
from  the  easy,  rhythmic,  oratorical  verses  on  which  I 
had  been  brought  up.  In  Palamas,  I  missed  those  pleas- 
ant trivialities  which  attract  a  boy's  mind  in  poetry. 
One  thing,  however,  was  clear  to  me  even  then.  Dark 
and  unintelligible  though  his  poems  appeared,  they  were 
certainly  full  of  a  deep,  passionate  feeling,  a  feeling  that 
haunted  my  thoughts  long  after  I  had  closed  his  book  in 
despair.  From  that  day,  I  condescended  to  think  of  him 
as  of  a  sincere  follower  of  a  wrong  cause,  as  of  a  sheep 
that  had  been  led  astray. 

Years  went  by.  I  was  no  more  in  Greece.  I  had  come 
to  another  country,  where  a  new  language,  a  new  his- 
tory, a  new  literature  opened  before  me.  Here,  at  last, 
I  began  to  assume  a  reasonable  attitude  towards  the 
question  of  the  language  of  my  old  country,  and  here 
first  I  could  read  Palamas  with  understanding.  Grad- 
ually, his  greatness  began  to  dawn  on  me,  and,  finally, 
my  admiration  for  him  had  grown  so  much  that  when  on 
April,  1914, 1  reached  Greece  as  a  travelling  fellow  from 


10  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

Harvard  University,  I  had  decided  to  concentrate  my 
studies  during  the  five  months  I  was  planning  to  spend 
there  upon  him  and  his  work.  With  his  work,  I  did 
spend  many  long  and  pleasant  hours.  But  him  I  visited 
only  once.  The  man  from  whom  I  had  once  shrunk  as 
from  a  monster  of  evil,  now  I  shunned  for  fear  I  had  not 
yet  learned  to  admire  in  accordance  with  his  greatness. 
Owing  to  the  urgent  demand  of  an  old  classmate,  Dr.Ch. 
N.  Lambrakis,  who  knew  the  poet,  I  went  to  see  him  one 
April  afternoon  in  his  oflSce  at  the  University  with  my 
friend  and  fellow  traveller,  Mr.  Francis  P.  Farquhar. 
Mr.  Palamas  was  sitting  at  his  official  desk;  but  as  soon 
as  we  entered  he  rose  to  receive  us  and  then  sat  modestly 
in  the  corner  of  a  sofa.  He  had  changed  very  little  in 
appearance  since  the  time  of  the  riots,  and  the  more  I 
looked  at  him  the  more  I  recognized  the  very  same  image 
which  I  had  kept  in  my  mind  from  the  first  encounter  I 
had  with  him  in  the  University  colonnade  ten  years  be- 
fore. Perhaps,  the  furrows  of  his  brow  had  now  become 
deeper;  the  white  hairs,  more  numerous.  His  eyes  were 
still  the  same  fiery  eyes  penetrating  wherever  they  lit 
beneath  the  surface  of  things  and  often  turning  away 
from  the  present  into  the  world  of  thought.  His  hands 
moved  quietly;  his  voice  was  clear  and  sonant;  his 
words  were  few  and  polite.    Unassuming  in  his  manner, 


A  NEW  WORLD-POET  11 

he  seemed  more  eager  to  receive  knowledge  than  to  talk 
about  himself  and  his  work.  He  asked  us  questions 
about  America  and  its  literary  life:  Is  Poe  read  and  ap- 
preciated ?  Is  Walt  Whitman  still  popular  ?  He  ad- 
mired them  both;  he  had  a  great  craving  for  the  new; 
and  to  read  things  about  America  fascinated  him. 
WTien  we  rose  to  leave,  we  realized  that  we  had  been 
doing  the  talking,  but  on  both  of  us  the  personality  of 
the  man,  reserved  and  unobstrusive  though  he  was,  had 
made  a  deep  and  lasting  impression. 

This  was  the  only  visit  I  had  with  him.  But  I  saw 
him  more  than  once  walk  in  the  streets  of  Athens  and 
among  the  plane  trees  of  Zappeion  by  the  banks  of 
Ilissus,  or  sitting  alone  at  a  table  of  some  unfrequented 
coffeehouse,  always  far  from  the  crowd.  It  was  only 
after  I  had  returned  to  America  that  I  wrote  to  him  for 
permission  to  translate  some  of  his  works.  The  answer 
came  laden  with  the  same  modesty  which  is  so  prom- 
inent a  characteristic  of  the  man.  He  is  afraid  I  am 
exaggerating  the  value  of  his  work,  and  he  calls  himself 
a  mere  laborer  of  the  verse.  Certainly  he  has  been  a 
faithful  laborer  for  a  cause  which  a  generation  ago 
seemed  hopeless.  But  through  his  faith  and  power,  he 
has  snatched  the  crown  of  victory  from  the  hands  of 
Time,  and  he  may  now  be  acclaimed  as  a  new  World- 
Poet. 


12  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

"  The  poetic  work  of  Kostes  Palamas,"  says  Eugene 
Clement,  a  French  critic,  in  a  recent  article  on  the  poet, 
**  presents  itself  today  with  an  imposing  greatness. 
Without  speaking  about  his  early  collections,  in  which 
already  a  talent  of  singular  power  is  revealed,  we  may 
say  that  the  four  or  five  volumes  of  verse  which  he  has 
published  during  the  last  ten  years  raise  him  beyond 
comparison  not  only  above  all  poets  of  Modern  Greece 
but  above  all  poets  of  contemporary  Europe.  Though 
he  is  not  the  most  famous  —  owing  to  his  overshadow- 
ing modesty  and  to  the  language  he  writes,  which  is 
little  read  bevond  the  borders  of  Hellenism  —  he  is  in- 
contestably  the  greatest.  The  breadth  of  his  views  on  the 
world  and  on  humanity,  on  the  history  and  soul  of  his 
race,  in  short,  on  all  problems  that  agitate  modern 
thought,  places  him  in  the  first  rank  among  those  who 
have  had  the  gift  to  clothe  the  philosophic  idea  in  the 
sumptuous  mantle  of  poetry.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
vigor  and  richness  of  his  imagination,  the  penetrating 
warmth  of  his  feeling,  the  exquisite  perfection  of  his 
art,  and  his  gifted  style  manifest  in  him  a  poetic  tem- 
perament of  an  exceptional  fulness  that  was  bound  to 
give  birth  to  great  masterpieces." 


A  NEW  WORLD-POET  13 

II 

LIFE  INFLUENCES 

Patras 

Kostes  Palamas  was  born  in  Patras  sixty  years  ago. 
Patras  is  one  of  the  most  ancient  towns  in  Greece, 
known  even  in  mythical  times  as  Aroe,  the  seat  of  King 
Eumelus,  "  rich  in  flocks."  It  became  especially  prom- 
inent after  the  reign  of  Augustus  as  a  centre  of  commerce 
and  industry.  Its  factories  of  silk  were  renowned  in 
Byzantine  times,  and  its  commanding  position  attracted 
the  Crusaders  and  the  Venetians  as  a  military  base  for 
the  conquest  of  the  Peloponnesus.  The  citadel  walls 
that  crown  the  hill,  on  the  slopes  of  which  the  modern 
city  descends  amphitheatrically  into  the  sea,  are  rem- 
nants of  Venetian  fortifications.  In  the  history  of 
Modern  Greece,  it  is  a  hallowed  spot;  for  it  was  here 
that  on  April  4, 1821,  the  standard  of  the  War  of  Libera- 
tion was  first  raised  before  a  band  of  warriors  kneeling 
before  the  altar  of  Hagia  Laura,  while  Germanos,  the 
archbishop  of  the  city,  prayed  for  the  success  of  their 
arms.  The  view  which  the  city  commands  over  the  sap- 
phire spaces  of  the  Corinthian  Gulf  and  the  purple 
shadows  of  the  mountains  rising  from  its  waters  in  all 


14  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

directions  are  superb,  and  the  sunsets,  that  evening 
after  evening  revel  in  colors  there,  are  among  the  most 
magnificent  in  Greece.  A  beauty  worthy  of  life  dwells 
over  the  vine-clad  hills,  while  the  mountain  kings  that 
rise  about  are  hoary  with  age  and  fame.  The  eye 
wanders  from  the  purple-laden  cliffs  of  Xylene  to  the 
opal  mantles  of  the  sea  and  from  the  peaks  of  Parnassus 
to  the  lofty  range  of  Kiona.  This  is  the  background  of 
one  of  Palamas'  "  Hundred  Voices,"  a  collection  of 
short  lyrics  in  the  volume  entitled  Life  Immovable'. 

Far  glimmered  the  sea,  and  the  harvest  darkened  the  thresh- 
ing floors; 
I  cared  not  for  the  harvest  and  looked  not  on  the  threshing 

floors; 
For  I  stood  on  the  end  of  the  sea,  and  thee  I  beheld  from  afar, 
O  white,  ethereal  Liakoura,  waiting  that  from  thy  midst 
Parnassus,  the  ancient,  shine  forth  and  the  Nine  Fair  Sisters 

of  Song. 
Yet,  what  if  the  fate  of  Parnassus  is  changed  ?    What  if  the 

Nine  Fair  Sisters  are  gone  ? 
Thou  standest  still,  O  Liakoura,  young  and  for  ever  one, 
O  thou  Muse  of  a  future  Rhythm  and  a  Beauty  still  to  be 
bom. 

To  his  birth  place,  the  poet  dedicates  one  of  his  col- 
lection of  sonnets  entitled  "  Fatherlands  '*  and  con- 
tained in  the  same  volume.    It  is  the  first  of  the  series: 


A  NEW  WORLD-POET  15 

Where  with  its  many  ships  the  harbor  moans, 
The  land  spreads  beaten  by  the  billows  wild, 
Remembering  not  even  as  a  dream 
Her  ancient  silkworks,  carriers  of  wealth. 

:   The  vineyards,  filled  with  fruit,  now  make  her  rich; 
And  on  her  brow,  an  aged  crown  she  wears, 
A  castle  that  the  strangers,  Franks  or  Turks, 
Thirst  for,  since  Venice  founded  it  with  might. 

O'er  her  a  mountain  stands,  a  sleepless  watch; 
And  white  like  dawn,  Parnassus  shimmers  far 
Aloft  with  midland  Zygos  at  his  side. 

Here  I  first  opened  to  the  day  mine  eyes; 

And  here  my  memory  weaves  a  dream  dream-born. 

An  image  faint,  half -vanished,  fair  —  a  mother. 

MiSSOLONGHI 

But  in  Patras,  the  child  did  not  stay  long.  His  early 
home  seems  to  have  been  broken  up  by  the  death  of  his 
mother,  and  we  find  him  next  in  Missolonghi,  another 
glorious  spot  in  the  history  of  Modern  Greece.  It  does 
not  pride  itself  on  its  antiquity.  It  developed  late  in  the 
Middle  Ages  from  a  fishing  hamlet  colonized  by  people 
who  were  attracted  by  the  abundance  of  fish  in  the 
lagoon  separating  the  town  from  the  sea.  This  lagoon 
lies  across  the  Corinthian  Gulf  to  the  northwest  of 
Patras,  hardly  an  hour's  sail  from  it.    Its  shallow  waters. 


16  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

which  can  be  traversed  only  by  small  flat-bottomed 
dories  propelled  with  poles,  extend  between  the  mouths 
of  the  Phidaris  and  the  Acheloos,  and  are  studded  with 
small  islets  just  emerging  above  the  face  of  the  lagoon 
and  covered  with  rushes.  Two  of  these  islets,  Vassiladi 
and  Kleisova,  attained  great  fame  by  the  heroic  resist- 
ance of  their  garrisons  against  the  forces  of  Kioutachi 
and  Imbrahim,  Pashas  in  the  War  of  Liberation.  The 
town  itself  is  a  shrine  of  patriotism  for  modern  Greeks. 
For  from  1822  to  1826,  with  its  humble  walls  hardly 
stronger  than  fences,  it  sustained  the  attacks  of  very 
superior  forces,  and  its  ground  was  hallowed  by  the 
blood  of  many  national  heroes.  Just  outside  its  walls 
lies  the  "  Heroes'  Garden  "  or  "  Heroon,"  where  under 
the  shadows  of  eucalyptus  and  cypress  trees,  Marcos 
Bozzaris,  Mavromichalis,  the  philhellene  General  Core- 
man,  and  Lord  Byron's  heart  are  buried.  It  was  during 
the  second  siege  that  Byron  died  here  in  the  midst  of  his 
noble  efforts  for  the  freedom  of  Greece.  The  fall  of  the 
city  brought  about  by  famine  is  the  most  glorious  defeat 
in  the  history  of  the  Greek  Revolution.  The  garrison  of 
three  thousand  soldiers  with  six  thousand  unarmed  per- 
sons including  women  and  children,  unwilling  to  sur- 
render, attempted  to  break  through  the  Turkish  lines. 
But  only  one-sixth  managed  to  escape.    The  rest  were 


A  NEW  WORLD-POET  17 

driven  back  and  mercilessly  cut  down  by  their  pursuers. 
Many  took  refuge  in  the  powder  magazines  of  the  city 
and  waited  until  the  Turks  drew  up  in  great  numbers; 
then  they  set  fire  to  the  powder  and  blew  up  friends  and 
foes  alike.  The  second  sonnet  of  Palamas'  "  Father- 
lands "  is  devoted  to  this  lagoon  city : 

Upon  the  lake,  the  island-studded,  where 

The  breeze  of  May,  grown  strong  with  sea-brine,  stirs 

The  seashore  strewn  with  seaweed  far  away. 

The  Fates  cast  me  a  little  child  thrice  orphan. 

'T  is  there  the  northwind  battles  mightily 
Upon  the  southwind;  and  the  high  tide  on 
The  low;  and  far  into  the  main's  abyss 
The  dazzling  coral  of  the  sun  is  sinking. 

There  stands  Varassova,  the  triple-headed; 
And  from  her  heights,  a  lady  from  her  tower, 
The  moon  bends  o'er  the  waters  lying  still. 

But  innocent  peace,  the  peace  that  is  a  child's. 
Not  even  there  I  knew;  but  only  sorrow 
And,  what  is  now  a  fire  —  the  spirit's  spark. 

Here  then,  "  the  spirit's  spark  "  was  first  kindled," 
and  here,  in  the  city  of  his  ancestors,  the  poet  was  born. 
The  swampy  meadows  overgrown  with  rushes  and  sur- 
rounded with  violet  mountains,  the  city  with  its  narrow 
crooked  streets  and  low-roofed  houses,  the  lagoon  with 


18  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

its  still  shallow  waters  and  modest  islets,  the  life  of 
townsmen  and  peasants  with  their  humble  occupations, 
passions,  and  legends,  above  all,  the  picturesque  dis- 
tinctness of  this  somewhat  isolated  place,  secluded,  as  it 
seems,  in  an  atmosphere  laden  with  national  lore — these 
were  the  incentives  which  stirred  Palamas  in  his  quest 
of  song.  They  have  stamped  their  image  on  all  his  work, 
but  their  most  distinct  reflection  is  found  in  The  Lagoon's 
Regrets,  which  is  filled  with  memories  of  the  poet's  early 
life  in  a  world  he  always  remembers  with  affection: 

Imagination  flies  to  hells  and  stars, 
A  witch  beguiling,  an  enchantress  strange; 
But  ours  the  Heart  remains  and  binds  both  life 
And  love  with  the  native  soil,  nor  seems  to  die. 

Peaks,  depths,  I  sought  Eurydice  of  old: 
What  longing  moans  within  me  now,  new-born  ? 
Would  that  I  were  a  fisherman  at  work, 
Waking  thy  sleeping  waters  with  my  oar, 
O  Missolonghi !  " 

Humble  but  natural  in  feeling  is  the  appeal  to  a 
friend  of  his  childhood  days: 

The  peasant's  huts  in  Midfield 
For  us,  old  friend,  are  waiting: 
Come  as  of  old  to  eat 
The  fresh-made  cheese,  and  taste 
The  hard-made  loaf  of  combread. 


A  NEW  WORLD-POET  19 

Come,  and  drink  the  milk  drawn  pure; 
And  filled  with  dew  and  gladness, 
Stir  up  the  hunger  of  the  youth 
Beside  you,  buxom  lasses. 

Here,  too,  he  sings  of  the  "  crystal  salt  that  is  drawn 
snow-white  from  the  lake  ";  of  the  rain  "  that  always 
weeps  "  and  of  the  conquering  tides.  Here  he  listens  to 
the  whispers  of  the  waves  while  they  murmur  with  each 
other  with  restrained  pride;  and  here  over  Byron's 
grave  he  dreams  of  the  great  poet  of  Greece,  who  will 
come  to  ride  on  Byron's  winged  horse.  The  poems  of 
this  collection  are  short  but  exquisitely  wrought  in 
verse  and  language,  full  of  life  and  of  feeling.  They  are 
especially  marked  with  Palamas'  attachment  to  the 
little  and  humble,  which  he  loves  to  raise  into  music  and 
rhythm,  and  for  which  he  always  has  sympathy  and 
even  admiration. 

Athens,  the  Violet-Crowned 

Missolonghi  nurtured  the  poet  in  his  youth  and  led 
him  to  the  threshold  of  manhood.  But  when  he  had 
graduated  from  the  provincial  **  gymnasion,"  he  nat- 
m'ally  came  to  Athens  in  order  to  complete  his  education 
in  the  University  of  that  city,  the  only  University  in 
Greece.     This  brought  him  to  the  place  which  was 


20  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

destined  to  develop  his  greatness  to  its  zenith.  The 
quiet,  retired,  and  humble  life  of  the  Lagoon  with  its 
air  filled  with  legend  was  suddenly  exchanged  for  the 
shining  rocks  of  Attica  and  its  great  city,  flooded  with 
dazzling  light  and  roofed  with  a  sky  that  keeps  its  azure 
even  in  the  midst  of  night.  Life  here  is  full,  restless,  and 
tumultuous  as  in  the  days  of  Athens  of  old.  The  violet 
shadows  of  the  mountains  enclosing  the  silver  olive 
groves  of  the  white  plain  are  still  the  makers  of  the 
violet  crown  of  Athens. 

The  poet  in  one  of  his  "  Hundred  Voices  "  pictures  a 
clear  Attic  afternoon  in  February: 

Even  in  the  winter's  heart,  the  almonds  are  ablossom! 
And  lo,  the  angry  month  is  gay  with  sunshine  laughter, 
WhUe  to  this  beauty  round  about  a  crown  you  weave, 
O  naked  rocks  and  painted  mountain  slopes  of  Athens. 

Even  the  snow  on  Parnes  seems  like  fields  in  bloom; 
A  timid  greenish  glow  caresses  like  a  dream 
The  Heights  of  Corydallus;  white  Pentele  smiles  upon 
The  Sacred  Rock  of  Pallas;  and  old  Hymettus  stoops 
To  listen  to  the  love-song  of  Phaleron's  sea. 

It  is  its  scanty  vegetation  that  makes  the  southwest- 
ern region  of  Attica  look  like  a  mountain  lake  of  light. 
The  nakedness  of  the  mountain  ranges  and  the  white- 
ness of  the  plains  are  vaulted  over  by  a  brilliant  sky  and 


A  NEW  WORLD-POET  21 

surrounded  by  a  sea  of  a  splendid  sapphire  glow.  Even 
the  olive  trees,  which  still  grace  the  fields  about  Athens 
are  bunches  of  silver  rather  than  of  green.  In  "  The 
Satyr,  or  the  Naked  Song,"  taken  from  the  volume  of 
Town  and  Wilderness  we  may  detect  the  very  spirit 
which,  springing  from  the  same  soil  thousands  of  years 
ago,  created  the  song  which  gradually  rose  from  primi- 
tive sensuousness  to  the  heights  of  the  Greek  Tragedy: 

All  about  us  naked! 

All  is  naked  here! 

Mountains,  fields,  and  heavens  wide! 

The  day  reigns  uncontrolled; 

The  world,  transparent;  and  pellucid 

The  thrice-deep  palaces. 

Eyes,  fill  yourselves  with  light! 

And  ye,  O  Lyres,  with  rhythm! 

Here,  the  trees  are  stains 
Out  of  tune  and  rare; 
The  world  is  wine  unmixed; 
And  nakedness,  a  mistress. 
Here,  the  shade  is  but  a  dream; 
And  even  on  the  night's  dim  lips 
A  golden  laughter  dawns! 

Here  all  are  stripped  of  cover 
And  revel  lustfully; 
The  barren  rock,  a  star! 
The  body  is  a  flame ! 


22  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

Rubies  here  and  things  of  gold. 
Priceless  pearls  and  things  of  silver, 
Scatter,  O  divinely  naked  Land, 
Scatter,  O  thrice-noble  Attica! 

Here  manhood  is  enchanting. 
And  flesh  is  deified; 
Artemis  is  virginity. 
And  Longing  is  a  Hermes; 
And  here,  and  every  hour. 
Aphrodite  rises  bare, 
A  marvel  to  the  Sea-Things, 
And  to  the  world,  a  wonder! 

Come,  lay  aside  thy  mantle! 
Clothe  thee  with  nakedness, 
O  Soul,  that  art  its  priestess! 
For  lo,  thy  body  is  thy  temple. 
Pass  unto  me  a  magnet's  stream, 
O  amber  of  the  flesh, 
And  let  me  drink  of  nectar  drawn 
From  Nakedness  Olympian ! 

Tear  thy  veil,  and  throw  away 
Thy  robe  that  flows  discordantly! 
With  nature  only  match  thy  form. 
With  nature  match  thy  plastic  image. 
Loosen  thy  girdle!  Cross 
Thy  hands  upon  thy  heart! 
Thy  hair  is  purple  royal, 
A  mantle  fairly  flowing. 


A  NEW  WORLD-POET  23 

And  be  a  tranquil  statue; 

And  let  thy  body  take 

Of  Art's  perfection  chiseled 

Upon  the  shining  stone; 

And  play,  and  sing,  and  mimic 

With  thoughtful  nakedness 

Lithe  beasts  and  snakes  and  birds 

That  dwell  in  wilderness. 

And  play,  and  sing,  and  mimic 

All  things  of  joy,  all  things  of  beauty; 

And  let  thy  nakedness 

Pale  into  light  of  living  thought. 

Forms  rounded  and  forms  flat. 

Soft  down,  lines  curved  and  straight, 

O  shiverings  divine, 

Dance  on  your  dance  of  gladness! 

Forehead,  and  eyes,  and  waves 
Of  hair,  and  loins,  .  .  . 
And  secret  dales  and  places! 
Roses  of  love  and  myrtles! 
Ye  feet  that  bind  with  chains! 
Hands,  Fountains  of  caress, 
And  Doves  of  longing  sweet, 
And  falcons  of  destruction! 

WTiole  hearted  are  thy  words. 
And  bold,  O  mouth,  O  mouth. 
Like  wax  of  honey  bees, 
Like  pomegranates  in  bloom. 


24  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

The  alabaster  lilies, 
April's  own  fragrant  censers, 
Envy  thy  breast's  full  cups! 
Oh,  let  me  drink  from  them! 

Drink  from  the  rosy  tinged, 
Erect,  enameled,  fresh, 
The  milk  I  dreamed  and  dreamed 
Of  happiness.     Thee ! 
I  am  thy  mystic  priest, 
And  altars  are  thy  knees; 
And  in  thy  warm  embrace 
Gods  work  their  miracles ! 

Away,  all  tuneless  things! 
Hidden  and  covered  things,  away! 
Away,  all  crippled,  shapeless  things. 
And  things  profane  and  strange! 
Erect  and  naked  all,  and  guileless. 
Bodies  and  breasts  and  earth  and  skies ! 
Nakedness,  too,  is  truth. 
And  nakedness  is  beauty! 
* 

In  nakedness,  with  sunshine  graced. 
That  fills  the  Attic  day. 
If  thou  beholdest  stand  before  thee 
Something  like  a  monster  bare. 
Something  that  like  a  leafless  tree 
Stands  stripped  of  shadow's  grace. 
And  like  a  stone  unwrought. 
His  body  is  rough  and  gaunt, 


A  NEW  WORLD-POET  25 

Something  that  naked,  bare,  and  nude 
Roams  in  the  thrice-wide  spaces, 
Something  whose  Hfe  is  told  in  flames 
That  Hght  beneath  his  eyeUds, 
Akin  to  the  old  Satyrs'  breed 
And  tameless  like  a  beast, 
A  singer  silver-voiced. 
Flee  not  in  fear!     'Tis  I! 

The  Satyr!  I  have  taken  here 

Roots  like  an  olive  tree, 

And  with  my  flute  deep-sounding, 

I  make  the  breezes  languish. 

I  play  and  lo,  all  things  are  mated. 

Love  giving,  love  receiving. 

I  play  and  lo,  all  things  are  dancing. 

All:  Men  and  beasts  and  spirits! 

Athens,  the  Centre  of  Greece 

So  much  of  the  natural  atmosphere  of  Athens  and 
Attica.  But  the  Athenians  themselves,  their  thoughts, 
life,  and  dreams  have  not  proved  less  important  nor  less 
effective  for  the  poet's  growth.  The  spiritual  and  intel- 
lectual currents  moving  the  Greek  nation  of  today 
start  from  this  city.  Here  politics,  poetry,  and  philos- 
ophy are  stUl  discussed  in  the  old  way  at  the  various 
shops,  the  coffee  houses,  and  under  the  plane  trees  by 
the  banks  of  Ilissus.    The  "  boule  "  is  the  centre  of  the 


26  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

political  activity  of  the  state.  The  University  with  its 
democratic  faculty  and  still  more  democratic  student 
body  is  certainly  a  '*  flaming  "  hearth  of  culture.  Only, 
its  flames  are  sometimes  so  ventillated  by  current  events 
and  political  developments  that  the  students  often  as- 
sume the  functions  of  the  old  Athenian  Assembly.  In 
the  riotous  expression  of  their  temporary  feelings,  the 
students  are  not  very  different  from  the  ancient  demes- 
men.  In  my  days,  at  least,  the  most  frequent  greeting 
among  students  was  "  How  is  politics  today  ?  ",  with 
the  word  "  politics  "  used  in  its  ancient  meaning.  Any 
question  of  general  interest  might  easily  be  regarded  as 
a  national  issue  to  be  treated  on  a  political  basis.  Thus 
it  happened  that  when  the  question  of  language  was 
brought  to  the  foreground  by  Pallis'  vernacular  transla- 
tion of  the  New  Testament,  the  students  took  up  arms 
rather  than  argument. 

Into  this  world,  the  poet  came  to  finish  his  education. 
In  one  of  his  critical  essays  (Grammata,  vol.  i),  he  tells 
us  of  the  literary  atmosphere  prevailing  in  Athens  at 
that  time,  about  1879.  That  year,  Valaorites,  the 
second  great  poet  of  the  people's  language,  died,  and  his 
death  renewed  with  vigor  the  controversy  that  had  con- 
tinued even  after  the  death  of  Solomos,  the  earliest  great 
poet  of  Modern  Greece.     The  passing  away  of  Vala- 


A  NEW  WORLD-POET  27 

orites  left  Rangabes,  the  relentless  purist,  the  monarch 
of  the  literary  world.  He  was  considered  as  the  master 
whom  every  one  should  aspire  to  imitate.  His  language, 
ultra-puristic,  had  travelled  leagues  away  from  the 
people  without  approaching  at  all  the  splendor  of  the 
ancient  speech.  But  the  purists  drew  great  delight 
from  reading  his  works  and  clapped  their  hands  with 
satisfaction  on  seeing  how  near  Plato  and  Aeschylus 
they  had  managed  to  come. 

Young  and  susceptible  to  the  popular  currents  of  the 
literary  world,  Palamas,  too,  worshipped  the  established 
idol,  and  offered  his  frankincense  in  verses  modelled 
after  Rangabean  conceptions.  In  the  same  essay  to 
which  I  have  just  referred,  he  tells  us  of  the  life  he  led 
with  another  young  friend,  likewise  a  literary  aspirant, 
during  the  years  of  his  attendance  at  the  University. 
The  two  lived  and  worked  together.  They  wrote  poems 
in  the  pm'istic  language  and  compared  their  works  in 
stimulating  friendliness.  But  soon  they  realized  the 
truth  that  if  poetry  is  to  be  eternal,  it  must  express  the 
individual  through  the  voice  of  the  world  to  which  the 
individual  belongs  and  through  the  language  which  the 
people  speak. 

This  truth  took  deep  roots  in  the  mind  of  Palamas. 
His  conviction  grew  into  a  religion  permeated  with  the 


28  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

warmth,  earnestness,  and  devotion  that  martyrs  only 
have  shown  to  their  cause.  Believing  that  purism  was 
nothing  but  a  blind  attempt  to  drown  the  living  tradi- 
tions of  the  people  and  to  conceal  its  nature  under  a 
specious  mantle  of  shallow  gorgeousness,  he  has  given 
his  talent  and  his  heart  to  save  his  nation  from  such  a 
calamity.  In  this  great  struggle,  he  has  suffered  not  a 
little.  When  the  popular  fury  rose  against  his  cause, 
and  he  was  blackened  as  a  traitor  and  a  renegade,  he 
wrote  in  words  illustrating  his  inner  agony: 

I  labored  long  to  create  the  statue  for  the  Temple 
Of  stone  that  I  had  found, 
To  set  it  up  in  nakedness,  and  then  to  pass; 
To  pass  but  not  to  die. 

And  I  created  it.     But  narrow  men  who  bow 
To  worship  shapeless  wooden  images,  ill  clad. 
With  hostile  glances  and  with  shudderings  of  fear. 
Looked  down  upon  us,  work  and  worker,  angrily. 

My  statue  in  the  rubbish  thrown !     And  I,  an  exile ! 
To  foreign  lands  I  led  my  restless  wanderings; 
But  ere  I  left,  a  sacrifice  unheard  I  offered: 
I  dug  a  pit,  and  in  the  pit  I  laid  my  statue. 

And  then  I  whispered:  "  Here,  He  low  unseen  and  live 
With  things  deep-rooted  and  among  the  ancient  ruins 
Until  thine  hour  comes.     Immortal  flower  thou  art! 
A  Temple  waits  to  clothe  thy  nakedness  divine!  " 


A  NEW  WORLD-POET  29 

And  with  a  mouth  thrice-wide,  and  with  the  voice  of  prophets, 
The  pit  spoke:  "  Temple,  none!  Nor  pedestal!  Nor  light! 
In  vain!  For  nowhere  is  thy  flower  fit,  O  maker! 
Better  for  ever  lost  in  these  unlighted  depths. 

"  Its  hour  may  never  come!  And  if  it  come,  and  if 
Thy  work  be  raised,  the  Temple  will  be  radiant 
With  a  great  host  of  statues,  statues  of  no  blemish. 
And  works  of  thrice-great  makers  unapproachable. 

"To-day  was  soon  for  thee;  to-morrow  will  be  late. 
Thy  dream  is  vain;  the  dawn  thou  longest  will  not  dawn ; 
Thus,  burning  for  eternities  thou  mayest  not  reach, 
Remain,  Cloud-Hunter  and  Praxiteles  of  shadows ! 

"  To-morrow^  and  to-day  for  thee  are  snares  and  seas. 
All  are  but  traps  for  drowning  thee  and  visions  false. 
Longer  than  thy  glory  is  the  violet's  in  thy  garden! 
And  thou  shalt  pass  away;  hear  this,  and  thou  shalt  die!" 

And  then  I  answered:  "Let  me  pass  away  and  die! 
Creator  am  I,  too,  with  all  my  heart  and  mind; 
Let  pits  devour  my  work.     Of  all  eternal  things, 
My  restless  wandering  may  have  the  greatest  worth." 

The  same  idea,  though  expressed  in  a  more  familiar 
figure,  is  found  in  another  poem  published  among  The 
Lagoon's  Regrets. 


30  KOSTES  PALAIVIAS 

The  Guitar 

In  the  old  attic  of  the  humble  house, 
The  guitar  hangs  in  cobwebs  wrapped: 
Softly,  oh,  softly  touch  her !  Listen ! 
You  have  awaked  the  sleeping  one! 

She  is  awake,  and  with  her  waking, 
Something  like  distant  humming  bees 
Creeps  far  away  and  weeps  about  her; 
Something  that  lives  while  ruins  choke  it. 

Something  like  moans,  like  humming  bees, 
Thy  sickened  children,  old  guitar. 
Thy  words  and  airs.     What  evil  pest, 
WTiat  blight  is  eating  thine  old  age! 

In  the  old  attic  of  the  humble  house. 

Thou  hast  awaked;  but  who  will  tend  thee  ? 

O  Mother,  wilderness  about  thee! 

Thy  children,  withering;  and  something, 

Like  humming  bees,  sounds  far  away ! 

A  distinct  note  of  pessimism  is  found  in  the  lines  of 
both  these  poems.  In  the  latter,  it  becomes  a  helpless 
cry  of  anguish.  But  despair  seems  to  cure  the  poet 
rather  than  drown  his  faith  in  hopelessness.  As  a  critic, 
he  encourages  every  initiate  of  the  cause.  As  a  "  soldier 
of  the  verse,"  he  himself  fights  his  battles  of  song  in 


A  NEW  WORLD-POET  31 

every  field.     In  short  story,  in  drama,  in  epic  poetry, 

and  above  all  in  lyrics,  he  creates  work    after  work. 

From  the  Songs  of  my  Country,  the  Hymn  to  Athena, 

the  Eyes  of  my  Soul  and  the  Iambs  and  Anapaests,  he 

rises  gradually  and  steadily  to  the  tragic  drama  of  the 

Thrice  Noble-One,  to  the  epic  of  The  King's  Flute,  and 

to  the  splendid  lyrics  of  Life  Immovable  and  The  Twelve 

Words  of  the  Gypsy  which  are  his  masterpieces. 

Nor  does  he  always  meet  adversity  with  songs  of 

resignation.    At  times,  he  faces  indignantly  the  hostile 

world  with  a  satire  as  stinging  as  that  of  Juvenal.    He 

dares  attack  with  Byronic  boldness  every  idol  that  his 

enemies  worship.    Often  he  strikes  at  the  whole  people 

with  Archilochean  bitterness  and  parries  blow  for  blow 

like  Hipponax.    At  times,  he  even  seems  to  approach 

the  rancor  of  Swift.     But  then  he  immediately  throws 

away  his  whip  and  transcends  his  satire  with  a  loftier 

thought,  a  soothing  moral,  a  note  of  lyricism,  and  above 

all  with  an  unshaken  faith  in  the  new  day  for  which  he 

works.    The  eighth  and  ninth  poems  of  the  first  book  of 

his  "  Satires  "  are  good  illustrations  of  this  side  of  his 

work: 

8 

The  lazy  drones !  The  frogs !  The  locusts ! 
Big  men !  Politicians !  Men  who  draw 
Their  learning  from  the  thoughtless  journals ! 


32  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

A  crowd  of  stupid,  haughty  blockheads! 

Unworthily,  thy  name  is  set 

By  each  as  target  for  blind  blows; 

But  forward  still  thy  steps  thou  leadest. 
Up  toward  the  high  bell-tower  above. 
And  climbest:  Spaces  spread  about  thee, 

And  at  thy  feet,  a  world  of  scorners. 
Though  thou  rainest  not  the  godsent  manna, 
A  great  Life-giver  still,  thou  tollest 

With  a  new  bell  a  new-born  creed. 


Aye !  Break  the  tyrant's  hated  chains ! 
But  with  their  breaking  go  not  drunk! 
The  world  is  always  slaves  and  lords: 

Though  free,  chain-bound  your  life  must  be; 

Other  kinds  of  chains  are  there 

For  you:  KJieel  down!  For  lo,  I  bring  them! 

They  fit  you,  redeemers  or  redeemed! 
Bind  with  these  chains  your  golden  youth; 
I  bring  you  cares  and  sacrifices. 

And  you  shall  call  them  Truth  and  Beauty, 
Modesty,  Knowledge,  Discipline! 
To  one  command  obey  last,  first, 

The  world's  great  laws,  and  men,  and  nations. 


A  NEW  WORLD-POET  33 

One  of  his  "  Hundred  Voices  "  has  something  of  this 
satiric  note.  It  is  a  blow  against  a  worthless  pretender 
of  the  art  of  verse,  who  courts  popularity  with  strains 
not  worthy  of  the  sacred  Muse.  Palamas,  acting  with 
greater  wisdom  than  Pope,  does  not  give  the  name  of 
this  unknown  pretender: 

Bad  ?     Would  that  thou  wert  bad;    but  something  worse 

thou  art: 
Thou  stretchedst  an  unworthy  hand  to  the  sacred  lyre, 
And  the  untaught  mob  took  thy  reeling  in  the  dust 
For  the  true  song  of  golden  wings;  and  thou  didst  take 
Thy  seat  close  by  the  poet's  side  so  thoughtlessly, 
And  none  dared  rise  and  come  to  drag  thee  thence  away. 
And  see,  instead  of  scorning  thee,  the  just  was  angry; 
Yet,  even  his  verse's  arrow  is  for  thee  a  glory ! 

The  Grave 

In  tracing  the  great  life  influences  of  our  poet,  we 
must  not  pass  over  the  loss  of  his  third  child,  "  the  child 
without  a  peer,"  as  he  says  in  one  of  his  poems  addressed 
to  his  wife,  "  who  changed  the  wordly  air  about  us  into 
divine  nectar,  a  worthy  offering  to  the  spotless-white 
light  of  Olympus."  To  this  loss,  the  poet  has  never 
reconciled  himself.  The  sorrow  finds  expression  in 
direct  or  covert  strains  in  every  work  he  has  written. 
But  its  lasting  monument  was  created  soon  after  the 


34  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

child's  death.  A  collection  of  poems,  entitled  The 
Grave,  entirely  devoted  to  his  memory,  is  overflowing 
with  an  unique  intensity  of  feeling.  The  poems  are 
composed  in  short  quatrains  of  a  slowly  moving  rhythm 
restrained  by  frequent  pauses  and  occasional  metrical 
irregularities,  and  thus  they  reflect  with  faithfulness  the 
paternal  agony  with  which  they  are  filled.  They  belong 
to  the  earlier  works  of  the  poet,  but  they  disclose  great 
lyric  power  and  are  the  first  deep  notes  of  the  poet's 
genius.    A  few  lines  from  the  dedication  follow: 

Neither  with  iron. 
Nor  with  gold, 
Nor  with  the  colors 
That  the  painters  scatter, 

Nor  with  marble 
Carved  with  art. 
Your  little  house  I  built 
For  you  to  dwell  for  ever; 

With  spirit  charms  alone 
I  raised  it  in  a  land 
That  knows  no  matter  nor 
The  withering  touch  of  Time. 

With  all  my  tears, 
With  all  my  blood, 
I  founded  it 
And  built  its  vault.  .  .  . 


A  NEW  WORLD-POET  35 

In  another  poem,  in  similar  strains,  he  paints  the 
ominous  tranquility  with  which  the  child's  birth  and 
parting  were  attended: 

Tranquilly,  silently. 
Thirsting  for  our  kisses, 
Unknown  you  glided 
Into  our  bosom; 

Even  the  heavy  winter 
Suddenly  smiled 
Tranquilly,  silently, 
But  to  receive  you; 

Tranquilly,  silently, 
The  breeze  caressed  you, 
O  Sunlight  of  Night 
And  Dream  of  the  Day; 

Tranquilly,  silently, 
Our  home  was  gladdened 
With  sweetness  of  amber 
With  your  grace  magnetic; 

Tranquilly,  silently, 
Our  home  beheld  you, 
Beauty  of  the  morning  star, 

Light  of  the  star  of  evening; 

« 

Tranquilly,  silently. 
Little  moons,  mouth  and  eyes. 
One  dawn  you  vanished 
Upon  a  cruel  deathbed; 


36  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

Tranquilly,  silently, 
In  spite  of  all  our  kisses, 
Away  you  wandered 
Torn  from  our  bosom; 

Tranquilly,  silently, 

O  word,  O  verse,  O  rime, 

Your  witherless  flowers 

Sow  on  his  grave  faith-shaking. 

In  another  poem  reminiscent  of  Tibullean  tenderness, 
the  corners  of  the  deserted  home,  in  which  the  child, 
during  his  life,  had  lingered  to  play,  laugh,  or  weep,  con- 
verse with  each  other  about  their  absent  guest: 

Things  living  weep  for  you, 
And  lifeless  things  are  mourning; 
The  corners,  too,  forlorn. 
Remember  you  with  longing: 

"  One  evening,  angry  here  he  sat, 

And  slept  in  bitterness." 
"  Here,  often  he  sat  listening 

Enchanted  to  the  tale." 

"  Here,  I  beheld  with  pride 
The  grace  of  Love  half -naked; 
An  empty  bed  and  stripped 
Is  all  that  now  is  left  me." 

"  I  always  looked  for  him; 
He  held  a  book;  how  often 
He  sat  by  me  to  read 
With  singing  tongue  its  pages!  " 


A  NEW  WORLD-POET  37 

"  What  is  this  pile  of  toys  ? 
Why  are  they  piled  before  me 
As  if  I  were  a  grave  ? 
Are  they  his  little  playthings  ? 

The  little  man  comes  not; 
For  death  with  early  frost 
Has  nipped  his  little  dreams 
And  chilled  his  little  doings." 

"  His  little  sword  is  idle, 

And  here  has  come  to  rest." 
"  And  here  his  little  ship 

Without  its  captain  waits." 

"  To  me,  they  brought  him  sick 

And  took  him  away  extinguished." 
"  They  watered  me  with  tears 

And  perfumed  me  with  incense." 

"  The  dead  child's  taper  burns 

Consuming  and  consumed." 
"  The  tempest  wildly  beats 

Upon  the  doors  and  windows. 

And  deep  into  our  breasts 

The  tempest's  moan  is  echoed." 

And  all  the  house  about 

For  thee,  my  child,  is  groaning  .  .  , 


38  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

The  World  Beyond  Greece 

Greece  seems  to  encompass  the  physical  world  with 
which  Palamas  has  come  in  contact.  He  does  not  seem 
to  have  travelled  beyond  its  borders,  and  even  within 
them,  he  has  moved  little  about.  With  him  scenery 
must  grow  with  age  before  it  speaks  to  his  heart.  Fleet- 
ing impressions  are  of  little  value,  and  the  appearance  of 
things  without  the  forces  of  tradition  and  experience 
behind  it  does  not  attract  him: 

Others,  who  wander  far  in  distant  lands  may  seek 

On  Alpine  Mountains  high  the  magic  Edelweis; 

I  am  an  Element  Immovable;  each  year, 

April  delights  me  in  my  garden,  and  the  May 

In  my  own  village. 

O  lakes  and  fiords,  O  palaces  of  France  and  shrines 

And  harbors.  Northern  Lights  and  tropic  flowers  and  forests, 

O  wonders  of  art,  and  beauties  of  the  world  unthought, — 

A  httle  Island  here  I  love  that  always  lies  before  me. 

We  must  not  think,  however,  that  the  spirit  of  Pala- 
mas rests  within  the  narrow  confines  of  his  native  land. 
On  the  contrary,  it  knows  no  chains  and  travels  freely 
about  the  earth.  He  is  a  faithful  servant  of  "  Melete," 
the  Muse  of  contemplative  study,  a  service  which  is 
very  seldom  liked  by  Modern  Greeks.  In  his  preface  to 
his  collection  of  critical  essays  entitled  Grammata  he 
rebukes  his  fellow  countrymen  for  this:    *'  On  an  old 


A  NEW  WORLD-POET  39 

attic  vase,"  he  says,  "  stand  the  three  original  Muses, 
the  ones  that  were  first  worshipped,  even  before  the 
Nine,  who  are  now  world-known:  Mneme,  Melete, 
Aoide  —  Memory,  Study,  Song,  With  the  first  and 
last,  we  have  cultivated  our  acquaintance;  and  never 
must  we  show  any  contempt  for  the  fruit  of  our  love  for 
them.  Only  with  the  middle  one,  we  are  not  on  good 
terms.  She  seems  to  be  somewhat  inaccessible,  and  she 
does  not  fill  our  eyes  enough  to  attract  us.  We  have 
always  looked,  and  now  still  we  look,  for  what  is  easiest 
or  handiest.  Is  that,  I  wonder,  a  fault  of  our  race  or 
of  our  age  ?  And  is  the  French  philosopher  Fouillee 
somewhat  right  when  in  his  book  on  the  Pshychology 
of  Races  he  counts  among  our  defects  our  aversion  to 
great  and  above  all  endless  labors  ?  "  That  Palamas  is 
not  subject  to  this  fault,  one  has  only  to  glance  at  his 
works  to  be  convinced.  There  is  hardly  an  important 
force  in  the  world's  thought  and  expression  whether  past 
or  present  to  which  Palamas  is  a  stranger.  The  litera- 
tures of  Europe,  America,  or  Asia  are  an  open  book  for 
him.  The  pulses  of  the  world's  artists,  the  intellectual 
battles  of  the  philosophers,  the  fears  and  hopes  of  the 
social  unrest,  the  religious  emancipation  of  our  day,  the 
far  reaching  conflict  of  individual  and  state,  in  short,  all 
events  of  importance  in  the  social,  political,  spiritual, 


40  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

literary,  and  artistic  life  are  familiar  sources  of  inspira- 
tion for  him.  With  all,  he  shows  the  lofty  spirit  of  a 
worshipper  of  greatness  and  depth  wherever  he  finds 
them.  Tolstoi  or  Aeschylus,  Goethe  or  Dante,  Ibsen  or 
Poe,  Swinburne  or  Walt  Whitman,  Leopardi  or  Rabe- 
lais, Hugo  or  Carlyle,  Serbian  Folk  Lore  or  the  Bible, 
Hindu  legends  or  Italian  songs.  Antiquity  or  Middle 
Ages,  Renaissance  or  Modernity,  any  nation  or  any  lore 
are  objects  worthy  of  study  and  stores  of  wisdom  for 
him.  Indeed,  very  few  living  poets  could  be  compared 
with  him  in  scholarship  and  learning. 

Nor  does  he  lift  his  voice  only  for  individual  or  na- 
tional throbbings.  He  sings  of  the  great  and  noble 
whenever  he  sees  it.  One  of  his  best  lyric  creations  is  a 
song  of  praise  to  the  valor  of  the  champions  of  Trans- 
vaal's freedom,  his  "  Hymn  to  the  Valiant,"  the  first 
of  the  collection  entitled  "  From  the  Hymns  and 
Wraths,"  a  paean  that  has  been  most  highly  lauded  by 
Professor  D.  C.  Hesseling  of  the  University  of  Ley  den 
(Nederlandsche  Spectator,  March,  1901).  Here  is  a  frag- 
ment of  it,  the  words  which  the  Muse  addresses  to  the 

poet: 

.  .  .  Awake !  Thou  art  not  maker  of  statues ! 
Awake!     For  songs  thou  singest! 
And  song  is  not  for  ever 
The  heart's  lament 


A  NEW  WORLD-POET  41 

To  fading  leaves  of  autumn, 

Nor  the  secret  speech  thou  speakest, 

A  Soul  of  Dream,  to  the  shadows  of  Night. 

For  suddenly  there  is  a  clash  and  groaning! 

The  joy  of  birds  sea-beaten, 

In  storms  of  Elements 

And  storms  of  Nations ! 

Song  is,  too, 

The  Marathonian  Triumpher! 

Over  the  ashes  of  Sodoma, 

It  is  blown  by  the  mouth  of  wrath! 

Something  great  and  something  beautiful. 
Something  from  far  away. 
Travelling  Glory  brings  thee 
On  her  sky -wandering  pinions. 

Glory  has  come !     On  her  wings  and  on  her  feet. 

Signs  of  her  wanderings  are  shown, 

Dust  gold-loaded  and  distant; 

And  she  brings  aloes  blossoming,  first-seen, 

From  the  land  that  feeds  the  Kaffir's  flocks. 

In  your  aged  summers, 

A  new-born  spring  has  spread  I 

From  North  to  South, 

The  Atlantic  Dragon  groans  a  groan  first-heard; 

To  the  African  lakes  and  forests. 

His  groan  has  spread  and  echoed; 

From  the  Red  Sea,  a  Lamia's  palace, 

To  the  foam-shaped  breast  of  the  White  Sea, 

A  Nereid's  realm. 


42  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

Thinly  the  plants  were  growing 

On  the  bosom  of  the  ancient  Motherland; 

Winds  carried  away  the  seed 

And  brought  it  to  the  Libyan  fields 

And  scattered  it  into  deep  ravines 

And  on  the  lofty  mountain  lawns. 

A  new  blood  filled  the  herbs, 

And  even  the  strong-stemmed  plants 

Waxed  stronger. 

Men  war-glad  are  risen! 

And  the  waterfalls  roar 

In  the  mountain's  heart; 

Men  war-glad  are  risen 

Like  diamonds  rare  to  behold 

That  the  earth  begets ! 

•  You  know  them,  heights,  winds,  horizons. 

High  tides  and  murmurings  of  restless  waters, 

Golden  fountains,  that  shall  become 

Their  crowns! 

And  you,  O  gold-built  mountain  passes, 

Castles  fit  for  them,  you  know  them; 

Their  fame,  thou  heraldest  with  pride 

From  thy  verdant  distant  country 

To  Europe  Imperial, 

O  Africa,  O  slave  unknown! 

And  first  of  all  thou  knowest, 

O  heartless  tamer  of  continents  and  races, 

Rider  of  Ocean's  Bucephaluses, 

Thou  knowest  the  worth  of  the  few. 

Who  dare  live  free  .  .  . 


A  NEW  WORLD-POET  43 

Within  the  limits  of  a  general  introduction  it  would  be 
difficult  to  enter  every  nook  and  corner  of  the  poet's 
world.  We  must  even  pass  over  some  of  the  most  potent 
influences  of  his  life.  The  national  dreams  of  the  Mod- 
ern Greeks  have  a  splendid  dwelling  in  the  thought  of 
Palamas,  who  follows  with  restlessness  his  people's 
woes  and  exults  in  their  joys.  A  group  of  poems  dedi- 
cated to  the  "  Land  that  Rose  in  Arms  "  and  published 
in  the  last  volume  of  the  poet's  work,  the  Town  and 
Wilderness,  form  his  noblest  patriotic  expression.  The 
present  world-conflict  has  naturally  stirred  him  to  new 
compositions,  of  which  his  "  Europe  "  is  preeminently 
noteworthy  as  illustrating  faithfully  the  various  aspects 
of  the  poet's  genius.  This  poem  appeared  first  in  the 
Noumas,  an  Athenian  periodical,  and  was  then  pub- 
lished in  the  last  volume  of  the  poet's  works,  the  Altars} 

Europe 

I.    THE   WAR 

Deer-like  the  East  pants  terror-struck !     The  West, 
A  flame  ablaze  that  leaps  amid  the  skies! 
Nations  are  wolves !  and  Hatreds  are  afoot, 
Whetting  their  bayonets! 

^  My  translation  of  it  originally  appeared  in  the  Stratford  Journal,  from 
which  I  quote  it  in  its  entirety. 


44  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

With  force  gigantic,  lo,  the  bursting  forth 
Of  the  barbarian  sweeps  on,  age-wrought; 
Oceans  are  cleft  and  swallow  Gorgon-ships, 
Castles  of  might  afloat! 

WTiat  sorcerers,  in  Earth's  deep  bosom  buried, 

Beat  into  shape  the  metal  ?     For  what  kings 

Slave  they  ?     What  crowns  forge  they  ?     The  tower-ships. 

The  ports,  the  oceans  quake! 

Lovingly  the  dream  born  of  dream  flies  high 
Air  wandering  amid  the  eagles;  yet 
O  victory !     Lord  of  the  azure,  man 
Spreads  horror  even  there. 

Methinks  the  Niebelungen  of  the  Night 
Startle  sun's  radiance  .  .  .  And  ye,  the  Rhine's 
Water-born  Nymphs,  are  lashed  and  swept  away 
By  monstrous  hurricanes. 

Siegfried,  the  hero  of  the  golden  hair. 
Makes  men  and  elements  before  him  kneel. 
War  is  the  arbiter  of  rising  worlds; 
And  Violence,  arbitress. 

Franks,  Anglo-Saxons,  Alemanni,  Hungars! 
Europe,  a  viper!     And  the  armies,  dragons! 
Here,  Uhlans  are  destroyers  pitiless; 
And  there,  the  Cossacks'  bands! 

From  endless  sweeps  of  steppes,  the  Slav  blows  forth 
An  endless  squall,  the  havoc's  ruthless  vow! 
Liberty  is  the  phantom;     and  the  slave, 
The  stern  reality. 


A  NEW  WORLD-POET  45 

Helvetians,  Scandinavians,  Latins,  Russians, 
The  martyr  Pole,  heroic  Flanders'  land. 
All,  small  and  great,  forward  to  battle  rush 
With  one  man's  violence! 

Beating  thy  breast,  thou  clingest  to  thy  throne, 
Storm-wrapped,  O  worshipper  of  gods  that  fade, 
Hypatia  thou,  the  Frenchman's  ruling  queen, 
Blood-bred  Democracy! 

The  Vosgic  towers  tremble!     And  God's  wrath, 
Valkyrie,  the  awful  Nymph,  wind-ridden  sweeps, 
A  rider  pitiless  that  threatens  thee, 
O  Paris  noble-born ! 

Our  age's  honored  prophet,  Tamerlan! 
A  shadow's  dream,  Messiah  of  sweet  Peace! 
Enthroned  in  judgment  stands  America. 
While  from  far  Asia's  depths. 

The  Indian  hermits  and  gold-gatherers 
With  yellow  Mongols  are  afoot!     With  them. 
The  sons  of  Oceania,  Kerman, 
And  Africa;  Semites, 

War-glad  Turanians  and  Aryans, 
Lands  that  the  Adriatic  kisses,  Rumans, 
Our  brother  Serb,  a  wall !  —  Let  Austria's 
Cataract  burst  and  roar! 

Vosges  and  Carpathians  and  Balkans  quake! 
Ridges  and  mountains  tremble!     The  oceans  roar! 
Five  Continents'  passionate  wraths  and  hatreds 
Revel  in  festival! 


46  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

But  lo,  the  Briton  with  sea-battUng  sceptre 
That  binds  the  restless  waves  to  his  command  — 
What  Caesars'  fetters  forges  he  anew 
Upon  the  island  rock  ? 

And  there  the  Tm-k,  who  holds  thee  with  dog's  teeth 
And  makes  of  thee  a  valley  of  sad  tears, 
O  paradisial  land  of  old  Ionia; 
And  here,  our  Mother  Greece, 

Dream-weaver  of  unending  laurel-wreaths 
Beside  her  Cretan  helmsman  and  her  king! 
Wax-pale,  the  world  stands  listening  and  holds 
Its  breath,  benumbed  with  fright! 


II.    THE   THINKER 

But  lo,  the  thinker,  whatever  is  his  soul, 
WTiatever  race  has  given  him  his  blood, 
W^atches  from  his  unruffled  haunts  calm-wrapped 
And  he  stirs  not. 

With  pity's  quivering  and  terror's  chill. 
In  tears  and  ruins,  he  plucks  a  fruitful  joy 
From  the  great  Drama,  watching  thoughtfully 
The  hidden  law. 

And  lo,  the  thinker,  whatever  is  his  soul, 
Whatever  race  has  given  him  his  blood. 
Abides  in  his  unruffled  haunts  calm-wrapped 
And  meditates: 


A  NEW  WORLD-POET  47 

Old  age  ?     No !     Nor  the  youth  of  a  new  life. 
All  is  the  same,  Europe  and  Law,  the  shark! 
And  never  changes  —  hear  ye  not  ?  —  the  march 
Of  history. 

A  splinter  in  the  powerful's  hands,  O  powerless, 
Yet  sometimes  —  comfort  thee  —  his  mate  and  friend! 
The  powerful's  blind  hand  even  thou,  O  Science, 
Often  shalt  be. 

Is  War  the  Father  of  all  things  ?    And  is 
The  lava  messenger  of  lusty  growth  ? 
How  can  the  creature  grow  from  monster  seed  ? 
Who  knows  ?     Pass  on! 

Even  if  some  great  dream  be  born  of  flesh 
And  the  wroth  tempest  fling  a  new  world  forth, 
Even  if  over  the  tumult  Europe  stand 
United,  one; 

And  if  the  state  of  a  new  people  rise 
Founded  upon  the  ruins  of  the  world, 
Still  always  thou  wilt  burn,  O  Fury's  torch, 
Amid  the  darkness. 

Even  if  thou  wilt  come  to  states  in  ruins 
And  empty  thrones,  O  power  of  juster  race. 
Always  the  tender  and  the  harsh  shall  be; 
Shepherd  and  flocks! 

Unless,  O  man,  something  is  destined  thee 
That  thou,  O  History,  foretellest  not: 
An  evolution  unbelievable 
To  gazing  worlds. 


48  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

m.    THE   POET 

The  poet:  Miracle-working  lo,  the  seed 

Of  blessed  dreams,  sown  in  his  heart,  takes  roots; 

He  is  like  mind  entranced  in  ecstasy, 

Born  upon  wings! 

Under  his  wings,  all  things  are  images 
Of  creatures  beautiful  for  him  to  sing. 
Whether  they  are  roses  April-born 
Or  warring  legions! 

And  neither  the  war's  roaring  gun  nor  yet 
The  river  of  red  blood  swift-flowing  on 
Can  make  the  flower  fade  that  fills  my  breast 
With  fragrances ! 

I  am  the  faithful  friend  of  song;  therefore, 
I  tremble  not  like  child  before  a  blackman; 
Midst  blood  and  flames  and  lashings  horrible, 
I  bring  thee.  Love! 

Thy  footprints  mark  a  shining  trail  of  lights 
New-risen,  guiding  with  their  gleams  my  steps; 
The  restless  gambol  of  thy  fire.  Dawn's  smile 
Upon  my  night. 

Thine  eyes,  O  Fountainhead  of  Beauty's  stream, 
Mirror  within  them  all  things  beautiful: 
And  lo,  the  eagles  of  the  Czars,  on  wings 
Sky-roaming,  sail. 

The  war,  when  thine  eyes  look  on  it,  becomes 
Under  the  magic  of  thy  glance  pure  wine 
Of  holiness.     The  German  is  the  wonder 
Of  deed  and  thought; 


A  NEW  WORLD-POET  49 

Where  Tolstoi  lived,  all  things  are  justly  blessed; 
Where  Goethe  dwelt  all  things  are  light  and  wisdom; 
And  yet  my  heart's  pure  love  flows  now  for  thee, 
For  thee,  O  France! 

Though  first  I  sucked  my  god-sprung  mother's  milk, 
Still  thou  wert  later  manna  unto  me, 
Desert-born,  joy  of  mine  and  guide  and  teacher. 
My  second  mother. 

On  thy  world-trodden  earth,  I  have  not  stood; 
Nor  didst  thou  bathe  me,  Seine,  in  thy  cold  waters; 
Yet  is  thy  vision  light  unto  my  song, 
O  second  mother! 

O  Celtic  oak-trees  and  Galatian-born 
White  lilies  in  lyric  Paris  blossoming. 
With  Hugo  and  with  thee,  O  Lamartine, 
Revels  and  wings! 

Dante  and  Nietzsche,  Ibsen,  Shakespere,  all. 
Poured  wine  for  me  with  their  thrice-holy  hands 
Into  thy  gleaming  cup  of  gold  and  bade 
Me  rise  on  high. 

A  child :    And  thou  didst  flash  before  me  first, 
Tearing  the  maps  of  dazzled  Europe's  lands 
With  the  world's  Mirabeaus  and  with  the  world's 
Napoleons. 

Thou  art  not  for  the  gnawing  worm  of  graves. 
Thy  gods  still  live  with  thee,  Hypatia! 
Glory  and  Victory  may  dwell  with  thee. 
Democracy ! 


50  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

From  the  number  of  the  life  influences  which  we  have 
scantily  traced  in  Palamas'  work  we  may  conclude  that 
he  is  a  true  representative  of  the  great  world  and  of  the 
age  in  which  he  lives.  Loving  and  true  to  his  immediate 
surroundings,  he  does  not  localize  himself  in  them,  nor 
does  he  shut  his  thought  within  his  personal  feelings  and 
experiences,  but  he  travels  far  and  wide  with  the  thought 
and  action  of  the  universal  man  and  fills  his  life  with  the 
life  of  his  age. 

It  is  exactly  this  universalism  that  makes  The  Twelve 
Words  of  the  Gypsy  his  best  expression  and  at  the  same 
time  the  most  diflBcult  to  understand  thoroughly.  The 
poem  is  reflective  both  of  the  growth  of  the  poet  himself 
and  of  the  development  of  the  human  spirit  throughout 
the  ages  with  the  history  and  land  of  Hellas  as  its  nat- 
ural background.  Consequently,  its  message  is  both 
subjective  and  objective.  Although  differently  treated, 
the  theme  is  the  same  as  that  of  the  "  Ascrean  "  which 
appears  in  the  latter  part  of  Life  Immovable  and  which 
may  be  considered  as  a  prelude  to  The  Twelve  Words  of 
the  Gypsy.  There  is  a  flood  of  feeling  and  a  cosmic  im- 
agery throughout,  but  they  only  form  the  gorgeous 
palace  within  which  Thought  dwells  in  full  magnificence 
and  mystic  dimness.  "  As  the  thread  of  my  song,"  says 
the  poet  in  his  preface,  "  unrolled  itself,  I  saw  that  my 


A  NEW  WORLD-POET  51 

heart  was  full  of  mind,  that  its  pulses  were  of  thought, 
that  my  feeling  had  something  musical  and  difficult  to 
measure,  and  that  I  accepted  the  rapture  of  contempla- 
tion just  as  a  lad  accepts  his  sweetheart's  kiss.  And 
then  I  saw  that  I  am  the  poet,  surely  a  poet  among 
many  —  a  mere  soldier  of  the  verse,  but  always  the  poet 
who  desires  to  close  within  his  verse  the  longings  and 
questions  of  the  universal  man  and  the  cares  and  fanat- 
icism of  the  citizen.  I  may  not  be  a  worthy  citizen. 
But  it  cannot  be  that  I  am  the  poet  of  myself  alone;  I  am 
the  poet  of  my  age  and  of  my  race;  and  what  I  hold  within 
me  cannot  he  divided  from  the  world  without'^ 

Washington,  D.  C. 
July  5, 1919. 


LIFE  IMMOVABLE 
FIRST  PART 

In  Palamas,  we  have  found  every  trait  of  the  Greek  character:  He 
is  religious  and  superstitious;  a  skeptic,  a  pagan,  and  a  pan- 
theist. .  .  .  He  is  a  poet  and  a  philosopher.  .  .  .  He  abandons 
himself  to  every  impulse  of  the  Greek  soul.  But  lie  is  always  fond 
of  drawing  hack,  of  concentrating,  of  trying  to  encompass  in  a 
general  form  the  sensations  and  ideas  which  sway  him.  His 
principal  and  latent  care  is  to  analyze  himself  and  his  world.  A 
poet  and  a  thinker,  Palamas  does  not  attract  the  multitudes.  .  .  . 
With  him  everything  is  a  mingling  of  lights  and  shadows.  .  .  . 
But  through  his  work  Greece  of  today  is  most  clearly  set  forth. 

TiGRANE  Yergate,  "  Le  Mouvement  litteraire  grec; 

La  Poesie."  La  Revue,  June,  1903,  vol.  xlv,  p.  717  f. 


LIFE  IMMOVABLE 

With  Life  Immovable,  the  poetic  genius  of  Kostes  Pala- 
mas  reaches  its  full  strength.  The  poet,  who,  from  his 
very  first  work,  The  Songs  of  my  Country,  had  shown  his 
power  in  selecting  his  sources  of  inspiration  and  in  weav- 
ing the  essence  of  purely  national  airs  into  his  "  light 
sketches  of  sea  and  olive  groves  and  the  various  sunlit 
aspects  of  Greek  life,"  ^  continues  to  broaden  his  vision 
and  art  through  an  unquenchable  eagerness  for  knowl- 
edge, for  an  understanding  of  things  beautiful,  whether 
present  or  past,  concrete  or  abstract.  He  makes  broad 
strides  from  his  Hyvin  to  Athena,  to  The  Eyes  of  My 
Soul,  Iambs  and  Anapests,  and  The  Grave.  In  all  "  the 
pathetic  and  the  common  meet  inseparably  with  an  art 
exact  and  full  of  grace,  an  art  that  knows  its  purpose."  ^ 
But  in  Life  Immovable  Palamas  rises  above  the  Hellenic 
horizon,  and  strikes  the  strings  of  the  universal  heart  in 
the  same  degree  as  the  towns  of  Patras,  Missolonghi, 
and  Athens  expand  into  Greece  and  Greece  into  the 
world.    After  all  there  is  both  realism  and  symbolism  in 

^  Tigrane  Yergate,  op.  cit.,  p.  710. 
^  Jean  Moreas,  Voyage  de  Grhce,  1898. 

55 


56  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

the  fact  that  the  first  poem  of  the  volume  reflects  the 
atmosphere  of  the  poet's  native  town  while  one  of  the 
latter  ones  "  The  Ascrean  "  is  filled  with  an  all-including 
world-vision. 

The  present  volume  contains  only  the  first  half  of 
Life  Immovable.  It  consists  of  five  collections  of  poems: 
The  "  Fatherlands,"  "  The  Return,"  "  Fragments  from 
the  Song  to  the  Sun,"  "  Verses  of  a  Familiar  Tune,"  and 
"  The  Palm  Tree."  On  the  whole,  a  careful  study  of 
these  collections  would  furnish  the  key  to  an  adequate 
understanding  of  the  rest  of  the  poet's  works  for  which 
these  poems  are  faithful  preludes.  For  this  reason  I  am 
tempted  to  give  an  analysis  of  the  translated  parts  as  a 
guide  to  their  understanding.  But  it  is  by  no  means  my 
wish  to  lay  down  a  fast  rule;  poetry  is  no  exact  science 
and  there  should  be  always  ample  room  for  freedom  of 
suggestion  and  of  view. 

1.  Fatherlands 

A  series  of  sonnets,  the  "  Fatherlands,"  make  the 
opening  of  the  book  and,  at  the  same  time,  symbolize 
most  clearly  the  growth  of  our  poet.  Each  sonnet 
describes  a  fatherland,  adding  another  link  to  a  chain  of 
worlds  that  dawn,  one  after  another,  upon  the  poet's 
being.    The  first  is  Patras,  his  birthplace.    Then  fol- 


LIFE  IMMOVABLE  57 

lows  Missolonghi  with  its  calm  lagoon  and  the  haunts  of 
his  boyhood.  The  splendor  of  the  violet-crowned  city 
of  Athens  is  succeeded  by  the  island  of  Corfu,  the  cradle 
of  the  literary  renaissance  of  Modern  Hellenism,  which 
again  fades  before  the  vision  of  Egypt,  whence  the 
earliest  lights  of  civilization  shone  upon  the  land  of  the 
Greeks.  Christianity  in  its  extreme  form  of  asceticism 
is  brought  forth  from  one  of  its  strong  citadels,  Mt. 
Athos,  the  holy  mountain  of  Greece,  and  a  contrast  is 
made  between  the  "  gleaming  beauties  of  the  world  '* 
and  the  utter  absorption  of  the  ascetic  by  the  intangible 
world  beyond.  The  vision  of  "  Queen  Hellas,"  the 
classic  age  of  Greece,  is  followed  by  the  conquering  spirit 
of  Hellenism  spreading  triumphantly  from  the  democ- 
racies of  Athens  and  Sparta  to  the  Golden  Gate  of 
imperial  Byzantium. 

But  "  imagination,  like   the  Phaeacians'   ship,  rolls 
on,"  and  the  poet  sings: 

In  my  soul's  depths  loom  many  lands  .  .  . 
And  where  the  heavens  mingle  with  the  sea, 
A  path  I  seek  for  a  sphere  beyond  .  .  . 

Oceans  are  crossed,  ages  are  brought  forth  from  the  past, 
and  continents  are  joined  in  making  the  poet's  spirit. 
Finally  even  Earth  becomes  too  narrow  and  the  greater 


58  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

universe  opens  its  gates  to  the  ultimate  fatherland,  the 
elements  of  the  world  which  will  at  the  end  absorb  the 
being  of  the  poet: 

Fatherlands!     Air  and  earth  and  fire  and  water, 

Elements  indestructible,  beginning 

And  end  of  life,  first  joy  and  last  of  mine, 

You  I  shall  find  again  when  I  pass  on 

To  the  grave's  calm.     The  people  of  the  dreams 

Within  me,  airlike,  unto  air  shall  pass; 

My  reason,  firelike,  unto  lasting  fire; 

My  passions'  craze  unto  the  billows'  madness. 

Even  my  dust- worn  body,  unto  dust; 
And  I  shall  be  again  air,  earth,  fire,  water; 
And  from  the  air  of  dreams,  and  from  the  flame 
Of  thought,  and  from  the  flesh  that  shall  be  dust, 

And  from  the  passions'  sea,  ever  shall  rise 
A  breath  of  sound  like  a  soft  lyre's  complaint. 

2.   The  Return 

The  second  collection  of  Life  Immovable,  entitled 
"  The  Return,"  is  dedicated  to  the  poet's  country.  It 
bears  under  its  title  the  significant  date  of  1897,  the  year 
of  the  unfortunate  Greco-Turkish  war  which  ended  dis- 
astrously for  Greece  and  plunged  the  nation  into 
despair.  After  the  defeat,  almost  the  whole  world  spoke 
of  the  Greeks  as  of  a  degenerate  people  beyond  the  hope 


LIFE  IMMOVABLE  59 

of  redemption.  The  sensitiveness  of  the  race  helped  in 
rendering  the  gloom  of  disaster  most  depressing.  For 
some  time,  even  the  Greeks  began  to  resign  themselves 
to  their  fate  as  a  hopeless  one.  Palamas  is  one  of  the 
first  to  sound  the  reveille.  He  conceives  of  his  collection 
of  songs  as  an  expression  of  faith  in  the  country's  future. 
With  perfect  love  and  assm-ance  "  he  comes  to  place  the 
crowns  of  Art  "  "  dream-made  and  dream-engraved  " 
upon  her  shattered  throne.  .  .  . 

Only  with  harmony  sublime  and  pure, 
Which,  though  it  rises  over  time  and  space, 
Turns  the  world's  ears  to  his  native  land, 
The  poet  is  the  greatest  patriot. 

Nevertheless  even  the  poet's  spirit  cannot  help  re- 
flecting the  gloom  through  which  it  tries  to  rise.  The 
general  depression  about  him  weighs  upon  him,  too,  in 
spite  of  his  effort.  This  shadow  haunts  him  constantly. 
Life  becomes  a  Fairy,  with  a  Fairy's  dangerous  charms 
and  fearful  mysteries.  "  Something  like  a  madman 
pursues  life."  The  poet  hears  this  madman's  falling 
steps  and  is  horror-haunted: 

And  lo,  blood  of  my  blood  the  madman  was! 
A  past,  ancestral,  long-forgotten  sin. 
That  bursting  forth  upon  me,  vampire-like, 
Snatched  from  my  hand  the  dewy  crown  of  joy! 


60  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

This  madman  grows  from  within  the  individual's  and 
the  nation's  life.  The  wings  of  joys  and  dreams  are 
clipped.  One  feels  like  a  night-owl  upon  glorious  ruins, 
the  beauty  of  which  makes  the  night  even  darker.  Tra- 
dition, like  a  majestic  temple,  seems  to  choke  life  by  its 
solemnity.  The  present,  which  seems  to  be  symbolized 
by  the  little  hut,  is  in  the  relentless  grip  of  "  a  mon- 
strous vision,  the  Fairy  Illness,  stripped  in  the  silver 
glimmer  of  the  moon."  There  is  always  the  mingling  of 
gleaming  beauty  and  of  bitter  sorrow.  There  is  always 
before  us  a  *'  cord-grass  festival,"  the  amber  fragrant 
flowers  budding  upon  the  piercing  spikes  of  the  cord- 
grass  and  luring  man  to  the  deadly  bog  where  there  is  no 
redemption.  One  might  say  that  the  poet  verges  on 
morbidity. 

But  such  an  assumption  would  be  unjust.  Palamas 
may  have  a  clear  vision  of  the  tragedy  of  life.  But  in  the 
light  of  this  revelation,  with  his  unfettered  contempla- 
tion, he  builds,  like  Bertram  Russell,  a  "  shining  citadel 
in  the  very  centre  of  the  enemy's  country,  on  the  very 
summit  of  his  highest  mountain;  from  its  impregnable 
watch-towers,  his  camps  and  arsenals,  his  columns  and 
forts,  are  all  revealed;  within  its  walls,  the  free  life  con- 
tinues while  the  legions  of  Death  and  Pain  and  Despair 
and  all  the  servile  captains  of  tyrant  Fate  afford  the 


LIFE  IMMOVABLE  61 

burghers  of  that  dauntless  city  new  spectacles  of 
beauty."  In  like  manner,  the  world  of  Greece,  in  which 
Palamas  lives,  "  our  home,"  as  he  calls  it,  may  have  its 
dreadful  silences  that  are  "  full  of  moans,"  moans  vague 
and  muffled  as  if  coming  from  a  distant  world 
Of  bygone  ages  and  of  times  unborn. 

But  he  does  not  lose  sight  of  that 

Harmony  fit  for  the  chosen  few,  ... 
A  lightning  sent  from  Sinai  and  a  gleam 
From  great  Olympus,  like  the  mingling  sounds 
Of  David's  harp  and  Pindar's  lyre,  conversing 
In  the  star-spangled  darkness  of  the  night. 

At  times  the  poet  even  raises  his  song  to  rapture. 
Certainly  the  past  becomes  a  source  of  happiness  in  his 
'*  Rhapsody,"  and  life  is  agleam  with  joy  in  his  "  Idyl." 
But  most  reflective  of  this  power  of  the  poet  to  conquer 
darkness  with  light  and  to  turn  ruins  into  gleaming 
palaces  of  beauty  and  of  song,  is  the  poem  entitled  "  At 
the  Windmill." 

The  local  color  which  is  by  no  means  a  rare  char- 
acteristic of  the  poetry  of  Palamas  is  particularly  rich  in 
this  collection.  Many  of  its  songs  are  vivid  and  clear 
pictures  of  Greek  life.  Yet  with  the  touch  of  symbolism, 
he  makes  such  local  flashes  world-flames.  In  **  The 
Dead,"  we  have  a  faithful  description  of  the  Greek 


62  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

custom  of  exposing  the  open  coffin  with  the  body  in  a 
room  whence  all  furnitm'e  is  removed.  Friends  and 
relatives  are  gathered  about  the  dead;  even  children  are 
not  excluded  from  paying  this  last  honor  to  the  de- 
parted. The  windows  are  closed,  and  in  the  gloom 
tapers  and  candles  are  burning  before  the  images  of  the 
saints  and  over  the  flower-covered  body,  while  the 
smoke  of  the  incense  and  the  fragrance  of  the  wreaths 
fill  the  air.  Yet  somehow  in  the  verses  of  the  song  one 
catches  the  moving  sounds  of  mourning  humanity,  the 
image  of  death  against  life. 

3.  Fragments  from  the  Song  to  the  Sun 

"  The  Fragments  from  the  Song  to  the  Sun  "  contain 
some  of  the  noblest  lines  of  Palamas'  poetry.    We  can- 
not have  a  complete  understanding  of  the  symbolism 
with  which  this  part  of  Life  Immovable  is  filled.     For, 
after  all,  from  the  great  hymn  to  the  light-god,  we  have 
here  only  fragments.    But  these  fragments  remind  one 
of  the  gold-stained  ruins  of  the  Akropolis  against  the 
bright  Attic  sky.    Throughout,  we  are  aware  of  a  strik- 
ing duality.    The  key  to  these  sunlit  melodies  is  prob- 
ably found  in  the  "  Giants'  Shadows."     Among  the 
shadows  whose  voices  ascend  from  darkness  "  like  mean- 
ings of  the  sea,"  the  poet  discovers  Telamonian  Ajax,  the 


LIFE  IMMOVABLE  63 

giant  who  is  utterly  absorbed  in  the  world  within  him, 
the  source  of  his  light  and  life,  and  Goethe,  the  Teu- 
tonic poet,  who  turns  to  the  world  about  himself  as  a 
flower  to  the  sun,  and  whose  heart  "  longs  and  thirsts 
for  light."  Here  then,  we  detect  the  doubleness  of  the 
sun  of  Palamas,  a  sun  within,  the  source  of  his  inner 
life  and  thought,  and  a  sun  without,  the  source  of  all 
external  beauty  and  growth. 

Thus  without  detracting  from  the  charm  and  power 
of  the  day-star,  he  ensouls  it  with  a  higher  meaning  and 
transforms  a  fiery  globe  into  a  light-clad  Olympian 
divinity,  a  giver  of  life  and  death,  a  healer  and  a  slayer. 
In  "  The  Tower  of  the  Sun,"  we  find  mighty  princes, 
sons  of  kings,  who  had  gone  thither  in  their  desire  to 
hunt  for  the  light,  turned  into  stones  by  the  "  giant 
merciless."  Motionless  they  stand,  a  world  of  voiceless 
statues  while 

From  their  deep  and  smothered  eyes. 

Something  like  living  glance 

Struggles  to  peep  through  its  stone-veil! 

Then  the  fair  redeemer,  a  princess  beautiful,  comes 
from  far  away  —  the  light,  it  seems,  of  inner  knowledge 
and  inspiration  —  and  the  Sun's  tower 

Gleamed  forth  as  if  the  light 
Of  a  new  dawn  embraced  its  walls! 


64  KOSTES  PALAlViAS 

She  knows  where  the  fountain  of  life  flows  and  with  its 
waters  wakes  up  the  sons  of  kings,  shining 

.  .  .  with  transcending  gleam 
Like  a  far  greater  Sun. 

This  is,  then,  the  sun  whom  Palamas  worships  as  a 
god.  It  is  a  sun  who  possesses  all  the  beauty  and  power 
of  the  actual  source  of  light,  but  who,  at  the  same  time, 
by  the  spell  of  mystic  symbolism  rises  to  the  splendor  of 
a  thrice-fair  and  almighty  divinity  containing  all  that 
is  beautiful  and  noble  and  powerful  in  the  world.  Upon 
such  a  sun  he  seeks  to  find  a  light-flooded  palace  for  his 
child  in  the  "  Mourning  Song."  To  such  a  sun  he  offers 
his  hymns  and  prayers;  and  such  a  sun  he  conceives  as  a 
vengeful  blood-fed  Moloch  or  a  muse  of  light.  He  is  a 
fair  Phoebus,  who  rises  from  pure  Olympus'  heights  to 
play  as  a  fountain  of  flowing  harmonies  or  to  smite  as 
"  an  archer  of  fiery  arrows  "  all  living  things. 

4.  Verses  of  a  Familiar  Tune 

In  the  "  Verses  of  a  Familiar  Tune  "  the  poet  con- 
ceives of  himself  as  of  a  wedding  guest  who  travels  far 
away  to  join  the  festival.  The  bride,  "  thrice-beautiful " 
seems  to  be  Earth;  and  the  bridegroom,  the  Sun.  The 
journey  to  the  festival  is  the  span  of  mortal  life.    The 


LIFE  IMMOVABLE  65 

poet,  who  must  travel  over  this  path,  endeavors  to 
brighten  it  with  dreams  and  shorten  his  way's  weary 
length 

With  sounds  that  like  sweet  longings  wake  in  him 
Old  sounds  familiar,  low  whisperings 
Of  women's  beauties  and  of  home-born  shadows  .  .  . 
The  flames  that  burn  within  the  heart,  the  kisses 
That  the  waves  squander  on  the  sandy  beach. 
And  the  sweet  birds  that  sing  on  children's  lips ! 

The  second  poem  of  this  group,  '*  The  Paralytic  on 
the  River's  Bank,"  recalls  the  notes  verging  on  despair 
which  we  have  found  in  "  The  Return."  Again  the 
gleaming  past,  appearing  here  as  the  other  bank  of  the 
river,  revels 

In  lustful  growth  and  endless  mirth 
With  leafy  slopes  and  forests  glistening. 

At  the  sight  of  such  splendor,  the  poet  lies  palsy-stricken 
on  this  bank  of  the  river,  the  "  graceless,  barren,  and 
desert  bank  "  unable  to  rise  and  sing.  Then  Life,  like  a 
merciful  Fairy,  takes  him  into  the  humble  hut  of  the 
present  and  makes  him  forget  the  other  bank  and 
nourishes  him  until,  at  last,  waking  into  the  new  world, 
he  weaves  the  whole  day  long  with  master  hand  all  kinds 
of  laurel  crowns  and  pours  into  the  unaccustomed  air  a 
flute's  soft-flown  complaint.    But  again  from  his  bed 


66  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

he  raises  his  eyes  and  sees  once  more  the  world  beyond 
the  river,  nodding  luringly  at  him;  and  even  there,  in 
the  midst  of  the  new  life,  he  falls  palsy-stricken,  "  the 
paralytic  of  the  river  bank." 

This  note  of  hopelessness  is  immediately  counter- 
acted by  the  "  Simple  Song,"  in  which  Life  opens  again 
her  gorgeous  gardens  of  the  past  to  pluck  the  fairest  of 
flowers;  and  when  he  weeps  over  the  newly  reaped 
blossoms  that  fill  his  basket.  Life  rebukes  him  by  facing 
them  unmoved  "  a  life  agleam!  "  With  like  whole- 
someness  he  greets  the  early  dawn  that  brings  him 
"  thought,  light,  and  sound,  his  sacred  Trinity,"  and 
enters  the  chapel's  garden 

To  see  the  children  beautiful. 

Children  that  make  the  grassy  beds  a  heaven 

And  rise  like  miracles  among  the  flowers. 

But  on  the  whole,  man,  the  wedding  guest,  must 
travel  on  while  the  winds  of  uncertainty  blow  about 
him.  Riddles  face  him  everywhere;  questions  stern 
and  unanswerable  spring  before  him;  and  the  life  of  the 
whole  human  race  seems  to  be  that  of  Thought  likened 
to  "  an  angel  ever  wrestling  with  a  strong  giant  flinging 
his  hundred  hands  about  the  angel's  neck  to  strangle 
him."  For  who  knows  if  a  good  act  unknown  shines 
more  than  the  most  splendid  monuments  of  marble  or 


LIFE  IMMOVABLE  67 

verse  ?  Who  knows  if  vice  is  wiser  than  virtue  ?  Is 
Fair  Art,  War's  Triumphs,  and  great  Thoughts  ex- 
pressed costKer  in  the  Temple  of  the  Universe  than  the 
mute  Thought  and  Glory  of  the  flower, 

...  at  whose  birth 
The  dawn  rejoices  and  whose  early  death 
The  saddened  evening  silently  laments  ? 

The  thoughtful  sage  high-rising  smites  the  gates 
Of  the  Infinite  and  questions  every  Sphinx; 
Yet  who  knows  if  the  soldier  with  no  will, 
Obeying  blindly,  is  not  nearer  Truth  ? 

O  struggle  vast!    Who  knows  what  power  measures 
The  measureless  and  creates  the  great  ? 
Is  it  the  matchless  thought  of  the  endowed. 
Or  the  dim  soul  of  the  multitude  that  bursts. 
Thoughtless  of  reason,  into  life  ?     Who  knows  ? 

We  know  not  "  whether  the  holy  man's  blessing  "  is  the 
best,  nor  whether  there  is  more  light  of  Truth  in  the 
Law,  "that  is  all  eyes,"  or  in  some  blind  love.  Thus 
entangled  in  the  meshes  of  life's  sphinx-like  wonders,  we 
spend  our  day,  little  particles  of  the  great  world- 
struggle,  wedding  guests  at  Life's  strange  festival ! 


68  KOSTES  PALAMAS 


The  Palm  Tree 


In  tenderness  and  delicacy  of  thought  and  expression, 
no  part  of  Life  Immovable  can  be  compared  with  the 
smoothly  flowing  stanzas  of  "  The  Palm  Tree.*'  There 
is  no  ruggedness  in  the  meter,  no  violence  in  the  stream 
of  images.  We  are  led  without  knowing  it  into  a  modest 
garden.  A  few  flowers,  a  palm  tree,  some  bushes,  and 
the  sky  make  our  world,  a  world,  it  seems,  of  things 
small  and  common  and  trivial.  But  the  poet  passes  by, 
listens  to  the  humble  flowers  of  dark  and  light  blue,  and 
puts  their  talk  into  rhythms. 

At  once,  the  flowers  become  a  world  of  beauty,  life, 
and  thought.  They  are  our  kin,  sons  of  the  same  parent 
Earth,  and  dreamers  of  strangely  similar  dreams.  "  The 
Palm  tree  over  them  becomes  a  great  mystery  of  power 
and  grace  lifting  it  to  the  realm  of  gods.  The  flowers, 
like  little  mortals,  wonder  at  the  things  they  see  about 
them.  Their  own  existence  beneath  the  palm  tree's 
shade  is  full  of  riddles,  and  they  face  the  world  with 
questionings.  In  the  very  midst  of  a  clear  sky's  festival 
that  succeeds  a  rain,  the  little  flowers  suffer  the  first 
blows  of  pain,  dealt  by  the  last  drops  that  fall  from  the 
palm  leaves,  and  they  feel  the  agony  of  sorrow  until 
they  come  to  realize  that  even  pain  brings  its  reward. 


LIFE  IMMOVABLE  69 

knowledge,  which  makes  them  glory,  like  victors,  over 
death.  Their  being  expands  and  they  sing  a  song  which 
is  the  essence  of  the  world's  humanity: 

Though  small  we  are,  a  great  world  hides  in  us; 

And  in  us  clouds  of  care  and  dales  of  grief 

You  may  descry:  the  sky's  tranquility; 

The  heaving  of  the  sea  about  the  ships 

At  evenings;  tears  that  roll  not  down  the  cheeks; 

And  something  else  inexplicable.     Oh, 

What  prison's  kin  are  we  ?     Who  would  believe  it  ? 

One,  danmed  and  godlike,  dwells  in  us;  and  she  is  Thought! 

Thus  their  song  continues  carrying  them  from  thought 
to  thought,  from  dream  to  dream,  from  joy  to  joy,  and 
from  sorrow  to  sorrow.  Swept  away  by  the  charms  of 
life,  they  raise  to  their  strange  god  a  hymn  of  exultation. 
At  the  sight  of  the  thrice-fair  rose,  they  sing  a  song  of 
love  and  admiration.  Their  experiences  stimulate  their 
minds,  and  they  seek  to  solve  the  dark  problems  that 
teem  about  them.  With  the  eagerness  of  living  beings 
they  listen  to  the  tales  of  new  worlds  and  miracles 
brought  to  them  by  bees  and  lizards.  Illness  and  night 
frighten  them  with  fearful  images;  and,  at  last,  they 
pass  away  with  a  song  of  hope  and  regret: 

We  shall  die. 

Nor  will  there  be  a  monument  for  us 

That  might  retain  the  phantom  of  our  passing! 


70  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

Only  about  thee  will  a  robe  of  light 
Adorn  thee  with  a  new  and  deathless  gleam: 
And  it  shall  be  our  thought,  and  word,  and  rime! 
And  in  the  eyes  of  an  astonished  world, 
Thou  wilt  appear  like  a  gold-green  new  star; 
Yet  neither  thou  nor  others  will  know  of  us ! 

Hakvabd  University, 
June  3,  1917. 


KOSTES    PALAMAS 

LIFE  IMMOVABLE 

FIRST  PART 


And  now  the  columns  stand  a  forest  speechless 
And  motionless;  and  among  them,  the  rhythms 
And  thoughts  move  in  slow  measures  constantly; 
And  in  their  depths,  light-written  images 
Show  Love  that  leads  and  Soul  that  follows  him. 

From  the  "Thoughts  of  Early  Dawn. 


I  LABORED  long  to  create  the  statue  for  the  Temple 
On  stone  that  I  had  found 
And  set  it  up  in  nakedness;  and  then  to  pass; 
To  pass  but  not  to  die. 

And  I  created  it.    But  narrow  men  who  bow 
To  worship  shapeless  wooden  images,  ill-clad. 
With  hostile  glances  and  with  shudderings  of  fear. 
Looked  down  upon  us,  work  and  worker,  angrily.  s 

My  statue  in  the  rubbish  thrown!    And  I,  an  exilel 
To  foreign  lands,  I  led  my  restless  wanderings. 
But  ere  I  left,  a  sacrifice  unheard  I  offered: 
I  dug  a  pit;  and  in  the  pit  I  laid  my  statue. 

And  then  I  whispered:    "  Here  lie  low  unseen  and  live 
With  things  deep-rooted  and  among  the  ancient  ruins 
Until  thine  hour  comes.     Immortal  flower  thou  art! 
A  Temple  waits  to  clothe  thy  nakedness  divine!  " 

And  with  a  Tnouth  thrice-wide,  and  with  the  voice  of 

prophets. 
The  pit  spoke:  "  Temple,  none!    Nor  pedestal!  Nor  light! 
In  vain!    For  nowhere  is  thy  flower  fit,  0  Maker! 
Better  forever  lost  in  the  unlighted  depths! 

73 


**  Its  hour  may  never  come!  and  if  it  come,  and  if 
Thy  work  he  raised,  the  Temple  will  he  radiant 
With  a  great  host  of  statues,  statues  of  no  hlemish. 
And  works  of  thrice-great  makers  unapproachahle! 

"  Today,  was  soon  for  thee;  tomorrow  will  he  late! 
Thy  dream  is  vain!     The  dawn  thou  longest  will  not  dawn; 
Thus  hurning  for  eternities  thou  may  est  not  reach. 
Remain  cloud-hunter  and  Praxiteles  of  shadows! 

**  Tomorrow  and  today  for  thee  are  snares  and  seas! 
All  are  hut  traps  for  drowning  thee  and  visions  false! 
Longer  than  thy  glory  is  the  violet's  in  thy  garden! 
And  thou  shall  pass  away  —  hear  this!  —  and  thou  shalt 
die!  " 

And  then  I  answered:  "  Let  me  pass  away  and  die! 
Creator  am  I,  too,  with  all  my  heart  and  mind! 
Let  pits  devour  my  work!    Of  all  eternal  things. 
My  restless  wandering  may  have  the  greatest  worth!  " 


74 


FATHERLANDS 

To  the  blessed  shade  of  Tigrane  Yergate  who  loved 
my  Fatherlands. 


FATHERLANDS 


Where  with  its  many  ships  the  harbor  moans, 
The  land  spreads  beaten  by  the  billows  wild. 
Remembering  not  even  as  a  dream 
Her  ancient  silkworks,  carriers  of  wealth. 

The  vineyards,  filled  with  fruit,  now  make  her  rich; 
And  on  her  brow,  an  aged  crown  she  wears, 
A  castle  that  the  strangers,  Franks  or  Turks, 
Thirst  for,  since  Venice  founded  it  with  might. 

O'er  her  a  mountain  stands,  a  sleepless  watch; 
And  white  like  dawn,  Parnassus  shimmers  far 
Aloft  with  midland  Zygos  at  his  side. 

Here  I  first  opened  to  the  day  mine  eyes; 

And  here  my  memory  weaves  a  dream  dream-born, 

An  image  faint,  half-vanished,  fair  —  a  mother. 

*  On  Patras,  the  birth-place  of  the  poet.    See  Introduction,  p.  13. 

77 


78  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

ir 

Upon  the  lake,  the  island-studded,  where 

The  breeze  of  May,  grown  strong  with  sea-brine,  stirs 

The  seashore  strewn  with  seaweed  far  away, 

The  Fates  cast  me  a  little  child  thrice  orphan. 

'T  is  there  the  northwind  battles  mightily 
Upon  the  south  wind;  and  the  high  tide  on 
The  low;  and  far  into  the  main's  abyss 
The  dazzling  coral  of  the  sun  is  sinking. 

There  stands  Varassova,  the  triple-headed; 
And  from  her  heights,  a  lady  from  her  tower, 
The  moon  bends  o'er  the  waters  lying  still. 

But  innocent  peace,  the  peace  that  is  a  child's. 
Not  even  there  I  knew;  but  only  sorrow 
And,  what  is  now  a  fire,  the  spirit's  spark. 

^  On  Missolonghi,  the  place  of  the  poet's  childhood.     See  Introduc- 
tion, p.  15. 


FATHERLANDS  79 


III 


Sky  every  where;  and  sunbeams  on  all  sides; 
Something  about  like  honey  from  Hymettus; 
The  lilies  grow  of  marble  witherless; 
Pentele  shines,  birthgiver  of  Olympus. 

The  digging  pick  on  Beauty  stumbles  still; 
Cybele's  womb  bears  gods  instead  of  mortals; 
And  Athens  bleeds  with  violet  blood  abundant 
Each  time  the  Afternoon's  arrows  pour  on  her. 

The  sacred  olive  keeps  its  shrines  and  fields; 
And  in  the  midst  of  crowds  that  slowly  move 
Like  caterpillars  on  a  flower  white. 

The  people  of  the  relics  lives  and  reigns 
Myriad-souled;  and  in  the  dust,  the  spirit 
Glitters;  I  feel  it  battling  in  me  with  Darkness. 


80  KOSTES  PALAIVIAS 

vVhere  the  Homeric  dwellers  of  Phaeaeia 
Still  live,  and  with  a  kiss  meet  East  and  West; 
Where  with  the  ohve  tree  the  cypress  blooms, 
A  dark  robe  in  the  azure  infinite, 

E'en  there  my  soul  has  longed  to  dwell  in  peace 
With  towering  visions  of  the  land  of  Pyrrhus; 
There  dream-born  beauties  pour  their  flood,  Dawn's 

mother 
Lighting  the  fountain  of  sweet  Harmony. 

The  rhapsodies  of  the  Immortal  Blind 

In  the  new  voice  of  Greece  are  echoed  there;  ^ 

The  shade  of  Solomos  ^  in  fields  Elysian 

^  On  the  Island  of  Corfu,  one  of  the  most  important  centers  of  the  literary 
renaissance  of  modern  Greece. 

'  lacobos  Polylas,  1826-98,  translator  of  the  Odyssey  and  of  parts  of  the 
Iliad,  and  an  important  figure  in  the  struggle  for  the  vernacular.  He  has 
also  translated  some  of  Shakespere's  plays. 

*  Dionysios  Solomos,  bom  in  Zante,  1748,  died  in  Corfu,  1857.  He  is  the 
first  great  poet  of  modern  Greece.  He  has  written  lyrics  in  Italian  and  in 
Greek.  Several  of  his  songs  have  spread  as  folk  songs  throughout  the  Greek 
world.  He  is  mainly  known  as  the  poet  of  the  modern  Greek  national 
hymn  to  Liberty. 


FATHERLANDS  81 

Breathes  rose-born  fragrance;  and  master  of  the  lyre, 
A  new  bard  sings,^  like  old  Demodocus, 
The  glories  of  the  Fatherland  and  Crete. 

*  Gerasimos  Markoras,  born  in  Cephalonia,  1826,  died  in  Corfu,  1911,  a 
lyric  and  epic  poet.  His  poem  "  Oath  "  was  inspired  by  the  Cretan  struggle 
for  freedom. 


82  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

Vi 

Lo,  dreams  strange-born  among  my  dreams  are  min- 
gling; 
A  lake,  the  ancient  Mareotis,  where 
The  Goddess  spreads  with  ever  hidden  face 
Her  wedding  couch  to  greet  Osiris  Lord. 

As  if  from  graves,  from  laughless  depths,  before  me 
Life  brightly  glitters  with  her  gentle  smile; 
A  Libyan  thirst  bm-ns  in  my  heart;  and  Ra, 
The  fiery  archer,  battles  everywhere. 

Something  sow-like  before  me  gnashed  its  teeth. 
The  slavish  soul  and  savage  of  the  Arab; 
World-nourishing  the  Nile  rolled  on  its  waters; 

And  lotus-crowned,  in  the  cool  shade  of  palms, 
I  loved  as  beasts  that  dwell  in  wilderness 
A  Fellah  lass  full-breasted  and  sphinx-faced. 

*  On  Egypt,  whence  the  first  lights  of  civilization  dawned  on  Greece. 


FATHERLANDS  83 


VI  ^ 


A  SINNER  hermit  on  the  Holy  Mountain, 
I  burn  in  Satan's  fire  and  pine  in  hell; 
My  soul  is  ruins  and  woe;  and  in  a  stream 
Deep-flowing,  I  sink,  a  traveller  beguiled. 

The  blue  Aegean  spreads  a  sapphire  treasure; 
Like  Daphnis  and  his  Chloe  stand  sky  and  earth ; 
Quivering,  lo,  the  seed  of  life  blooms  forth; 
In  swarms,  the  living  beings  suck  the  sap 

Of  all.     Olympus,  Ossa,  Pelion, 

And  every  lap  of  sea,  and  every  tongue 

Of  land,  lake-like  Cassandra,  Thrace's  shores 

Are  clad  in  wedding  garb;  and  I  ?     "0  Lord, 
Be  my  Redeemer!  ",  and  with  floods  of  tears 
I  bathe  the  god-child  Panselenus  "^  wrought. 

1  On  Mt.  Athos,  the  Holy  Mountain  of  the  modern  Greeks,  inhabited  by 
about  ten  thousand  monks.  Although  called  by  its  hermits  "  the  virgin's 
garden  "  no  female  creature  is  allowed  to  enter  its  ground. 

'  Panselenus,  a  famous  Byzantine  painter,  who  is  believed  to  be  the  author 
of  some  of  the  Madonnas  and  Christs  foimd  in  the  monasteries  of^the 
mountain. 


84  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

VII 1 

RuMELE  is  a  royal  crown  of  ruby; 
Moreas  is  a  glow  of  emerald; 
The  Seven  Isles,^  a  jasmine  sevenfold; 
And  every  Cyclad,  a  Nereid  sea-born. 

Even  the  chains  of  rugged  Epirus  laugh; 
And  Thessaly  spreads  far  her  golden  charms. 
Hidden  beneath  her  present  waves  of  woe, 
Methinks  I  look  on  Hellas,  Queen  of  lands. 

For  still  the  ancient  fir  of  valor  blooms; 
And  from  the  pangs  and  sighs  of  ages  risen, 
The  breath  of  Digenes  ^  fills  all  the  land 

Breeding  a  race  of  heroes  strong  and  new; 
And  in  the  depths  of  green  and  golden  Night 
Sings  on  Colonus  Hill  the  nightingale. 

1  On  classic  Greece,  in  contrast  with  the  following  sonnet  which  refers  to  the 
spirit  of  Greece  throughout  the  ages,  from  the  classic  period  to  the  time  of 
the  Byzantine  Empire. 

*  The  Islands  of  the  Ionian  Sea. 

'  The  hero  of  medieval  Greece,  Digenes  Akritas,  who  is  supposed  to  have 
lived  on  the  slopes  of  the  Taurus  mountains  in  Asia  Minor  and  to  have 
fought  against  the  invading  Saracens.  There  are  a  great  number  of  folk- 
songs about  him  not  only  in  Greek  but  in  Turkish,  Bulgarian,  Serbian,  and 
Albanian  as  well. 


FATHERLANDS  85 


VIII 


From  Danube  to  the  cape  of  Taenaron, 
From  Thunder  Mountain's  End  to  Chalcedon, 
Thou  passest  now  a  mermaid  of  the  sea 
And  now  a  statue  of  marble  Parian. 

Now  with  the  laurel  bough  from  Helicon 
And  now  with  sword  barbarian,  thou  sweepest; 
And  on  the  fields  of  thy  great  labarum, 
I  see  a  double  headed  image  drawn. 

The  sacred  Rock  gleams  like  a  topaz  here; 
And  virgins  basket-bearing,  clad  in  white, 
March  in  a  dance  and  shake  Athena's  veil; 

But  far  the  sapphires  shine  of  Bosporus; 
And  through  the  Golden  Gate  exulting  pass 
Victors  Imperial  triumphantly. 


86  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

IX 

Like  the  Phaeacians'  ship,  Imagination 
Without  the  help  of  sail  or  mariner 
Rolls  on;  in  my  soul's  depths  loom  many  lands: 
Thrice-ancient,  motionless  like  Asia, 

And  others  five-minded  and  bold  like  Europe's  realms; 
Despair  like  Africa's  black  earth  holds  me; 
Within  me  a  savage  Polynesia  spreads; 
And  always  I  trail  some  path  Columbian. 

All  monstrous  things  of  life,  the  fields  aflame 

Under  a  tropic  sun,  I  knew;  I  wore 

The  shrouds  of  the  poles;  and  on  a  thousand  paths, 

I  saw  the  world  unfurled  before  my  eyes. 
And  what  am  I  ?     Grass  on  a  clod  of  earth 
Scorned  even  by  the  passing  reaper's  scythe. 


FATHERLANDS  87 


X 


A  TRAVELLER,  I  found  in  waveless  seas 
Calypso  and  Helena  thrice-beautiful; 
And  on  the  Lotus  Eaters'  shores,  I  drank 
The  blissful  waters  of  oblivion. 

In  the  sun-flooded  land,  I  stood  by  him, 

The  god  of  the  Hyperborean  race; 

One  night  —  in  strange  and  peerless  radiance  — 

The  Magi  showed  to  me  the  mystic  star. 

I  saw  the  Queen  of  Sheba  on  her  throne, 
O  Soul,  light  flowing  from  her  fingers'  touch; 
My  eyes  beheld  Atlantis  Isle,  that  seemed 

An  Ocean  flower  beyond  a  mortal's  dreams; 

And  now  the  care  and  memory  of  all 

These  things  are  rhythm  to  me  and  verse  and  song. 


88  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

XI 

About  the  chariot  of  the  Seven  Stars, 
Sky-racers  numberless,  whole  worlds  of  giants 
And  beasts:     Ocean  of  suns,  the  Milky  Way, 
Orion,  and  the  monsters  of  the  spheres  — 

The  fearful  Zodiac.     The  Lion  roars 
Amidst  the  wilderness  etherial; 
The  Lyre  plays;  and  trophy-like,  the  Lock 
Of  Berenice  gleams;  and  rhythms  and  laws 

Fade  in  the  space  of  mysteries.     Sun,  Cronus, 
Mars,  Earth,  and  Venus  sweep  in  swift  pursuit 
Towards  the  world  magnet  of  great  Hercules. 

Only  my  soul  like  polar  star  awaits 
Immovable,  yet  filled  with  dreamful  longings; 
And  knows  not  whence  it  comes  nor  where  it  goes. 


FATHERLANDS  8d 


XII 


r  ATHERLANDS !     Air  and  earth  and  fire  and  water ! 

Elements  indestructible,  beginning 

And  end  of  life,  first  joy  and  last  of  mine! 

You  I  shall  find  again  when  I  pass  on 

To  the  graves'  calm.     The  people  of  the  dreams 

Within  me,  airlike,  unto  air  shall  pass; 

My  reason,  fire-like,  unto  lasting  fire; 

My  passions'  craze  unto  the  billows'  madness; 

Even  my  dust-born  body,  unto  dust; 

And  I  shall  be  again  air,  earth,  fire,  water; 

And  from  the  air  of  dreams,  and  from  the  flames 

Of  thought,  and  from  the  flesh  that  shall  be  dust. 
And  from  the  passions'  sea,  ever  shall  rise 
A  breath  of  sound  like  a  soft  lyre's  complaint. 


90 


KOSTES  PALAMAS 


THE  SONNETS 

From  their  foreign  land  and  precious, 
From  their  nest  in  green,  I  took 
Red-plumed  birds;  and  then  I  closed  them 
In  a  cage  of  woven  gold. 

And  the  cage  of  woven  gold 
Then  became  a  second  nest; 
On  our  shores  the  birds  have  found 
A  new,  precious  fatherland. 

Softly  here  they  shake  their  feathers; 
Swiftly  sing  of  worlds  and  souls 
Deep  and  spacious;  or  they  mingle 

Lightning-like  their  tears  and  smiles. 
And  though  small  and  as  of  coral, 
Yet  they  sing  with  accents  loud. 

1896. 


FATHERLANDS  91 


EPIPHANY 


With  chariot  drawn  by  star-plumed  peacocks,  lo. 
The  goddess  of  desires  before  her  people 
Is  revealed!     She  passes  on,  youth's  joyful  shout 
And  tortiu-e,  dragging  my  eighteen  years  behind. 

Snowflakes  became  a  world;  and,  taking  life 
As  substance,  made  her  body  and  her  thought. 
Upon  her  royal  brow,  birds  strange  and  wild. 
Scorn's  breed,  have  built  their  nest  and  there  abide. 

Upon  her  path,  in  vain  I  build  the  palace 
Of  virgin  dreams  with  virgin  gold  for  her. 
Raising  a  throne  of  diamonds  in  its  midst. 

She  passes  on  her  starlit  chariot; 

And  as  if  filled  with  golden  dreams  divine, 

She  does  not  even  look  upon  my  palace! 

1895. 


92 


KOSTES  PALAMAS 


MAKARIA 1 

To  you,  who  dawned  before  me,  offspring  of 
The  great  abyss  and  flower  of  foaming  billows! 
To  you,  whom  with  their  love  all  things  embrace, 
And  who  stir  tempests  in  a  statue's  depths! 

To  you,  O  woman  and  O  virgin,  myrrhs, 
Fruit,  frankincense,  I  offer  recklessly! 
To  you,  the  music  of  the  world!     To  you. 
My  songs'  pure  foam,  songs  that  your  vision  fills ! 

For  you  can  love,  remember,  understand. 
Before  I  saw  you  in  the  world's  great  night. 
You  shone  upon  my  mother's  lighted  face. 

Your  worshipper  into  the  world  I  came; 

Your  name  I  knew  not,  and  in  love's  sweet  font 

I  called  you  with  the  name  Makarial 

1895. 

^  The  word,  meaning  "  blessed  one,"  is  here  applied  to  ideal  womanhood 
and  must  not  be  confused  with  Makaria  of  p.  103,  the  mythical  Theban 
princess. 


FATHERLANDS  93 


THE  MARKET  PLACE 


Just  as  dry  summers  pant  for  the  first  rain. 
So  thou  art  thirsty  for  a  happy  home 
And  for  a  hfe  remote,  Hke  hermit's  prayer, 
A  corner  of  forgetting  and  of  love. 

And  thirsty  for  the  ship  upon  the  sea 
That  ever  onward  sails  with  birds  and  sea-things, 
Filling  its  life  with  our  great  planet's  light. 
But  unto  thee  both  ship  and  home  said:     "  No! 


<( 


Look  neither  for  the  happiness  remote 
That  never  moves,  nor  for  the  life  that  ever  finds 
In  each  new  land  and  harbor  a  new  soul!  " 

*'  Only  the  panting  of  a  toiling  slave 

For  thee!     Drag  in  the  market  place  thy  body's 

Nakedness,  strange  to  the  strangers  and  thine  own!  " 

1896. 


94  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

LOVES 

OOME  people  love  things  modest  and  things  small. 
And  like  to  feed  in  cages  little  birds; 
They  deck  themselves  with  garden  violets 
And  drink  the  singing  waters  of  the  brooks. 

Others  delight  in  tales  told  by  the  embers 
Of  the  home  hearth  or  listen  to  the  songs 
Of  the  nightbirds  with  rapture;  others,  slaves 
Of  a  great  pain,  burn  incense  to  the  stars 

Of  beauty.     And  some  thirst  for  the  forest  shades 
And  for  a  nacreous  dawn,  and  for  a  sunset 
Dipped  in  red  blood,  a  barren  wilderness 

Light-burned.     But  thee  no  love  with  nature  binds; 
And  where  the  heavens  mingle  with  the  sea, 
A  path  thou  seekest  for  a  sphere  beyond. 

1896. 


FATHERLANDS  95 

WHEN  POLYLAS  DEED  » 

VViTH  wings  and  hands  ethereal,  rhythms  and 

thoughts 
Lifted  thy  soul,  redeemed  from  its  dust  frame, 
And  led  it  straightway  to  the  stars;  and  there 
The  sacred  escort  halts  and  ends  its  journey. 

In  summers  paradisiac  beyond, 
Where  on  the  Lyre's  star  the  bards  and  makers, 
Like  doves  with  breath  immortal,  dwell  in  gleams. 
The  shade  of  Solomos  like  magnet  draws  thee. 

And  leading  thee  before  a  double  Tabor, 

Thus  speaks  to  thee:     "  Here  is  thy  glory!     Here 

DweU  and  behold  the  giant  pair  that  stand 

Before  thee  never  setting,  with  diamonds  dark; 
And  like  a  breath  of  worship  pass,  embracing 
Thy  Homer  and  thy  Shakespere,  blessed  One!  " 

1896. 

^  The  translator  of  Homer  and  Shakespere.    See  notes  i  and  3,  p.  80. 


96  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

TO  PETROS  BASILIKOS ' 

O  BARD,  whose  songs  unto  the  vernal  god 
Of  idyls  rang  from  the  same  gladsome  flute, 
April's  sweet-breathing  air  is  mingled  now 
With  martial  sounds  of  savage  trumpetings. 

A  crown  is  woven  for  our  motherland: 
Is  it  life's  laurels  or  the  martyr's  thorns  ? 
Oh  see  beyond:  the  wild  vine's  flowers  now 
Are  shaken  on  a  lake  of  blood  and  tears ! 

Has  the  war  phantom  blown  upon  thee  too  ? 
Or  hast  thou  with  the  force  of  lightning  winds 
Flown  where  for  ages  sacred  hatreds  burn 

In  flames  ?     Or  has  an  evil  wound  thrown  thee 
Upon  the  earth  where  now  in  vain  the  god 
Of  idyls  tries  to  raise  thee  with  his  kisses  ? 

1897. 

*■  A  pseudonym  for  Constantine  Chatzopoulos,  one  of  the  leading  literary 
Bgures  in  Athens  to-day.  He  has  written  poems  under  this  pseudonym.  But 
he  is  now  mainly  known  as  a  master  of  short  stories  which  he  has  published 
under  his  real  name,  and  as  the  translator  of  Gbthe's  Faust  and  of  Hof- 
mannsthal's  Electra.  This  poem  dedicated  to  him  was  written  during  the 
unfortunate  Greco- Turkish  war  of  1897. 


FATHERLANDS  97 

SOLDIER  AND  MAKER 

Soldier  and  maker  swiftly  I 
Seized  with  my  hand  the  spear  and  spoke: 
"  Fall  on  the  beast  of  the  world  beyond 
And  strike  the  eagle- winged  lion!  " 

Before  me  with  God's  grace,  I  saw 
Soulless  the  griffin  seven-souled, 
Blood  spurting  from  a  hole  hell-like 
And  scorching  with  its  heat  the  grass! 

And  then  restored  with  calm,  I  saw 
The  savage  strife  like  a  day's  dawn; 
And  the  destroyer,  I,  became 

A  maker;  and  with  this  same  hand, 

I  carve  on  ivory  the  man 

Who  slew  the  beast  and  make  him  deathless. 

1896. 


98  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

THE  ATHENA  RELIEF 

Why  leanest  thou  on  idle  spear  ? 
Why  is  thy  dreadful  helmet  bent 
Heavy  upon  thy  breast,  O  virgin  ? 
What  sorrow  is  so  great,  O  thought. 

As  to  touch  thee  ?    Are  there  no  more 
Of  thunder-bearing  enemies 
To  yield  thee  trophies  new  ?     No  pomp 
Athenian  to  guide  thy  ship 

On  to  the  sacred  Rock  ?     I  see 

Some  pain  holds  Pallas  fixed  upon 

A  gravestone.     Some  great  blow  moves  her; 

Is  it  thy  sacred  city's  loss, 

Or  seest  thou  all  Greece  —  alas  — 

Of  now  and  yesterday  entombed  ? 

1896. 


FATHERLANDS  99 

THE  HUNTRESS  RELIEF 

Whither  so  light  of  garb  and  swift  of  foot,  O  Hunt- 
ress ? 

Is  it  the  sacred  gifts  of  pure  Hippolytus 

That  make  thee  leave  Arcadia's  forest  land  behind, 

0  shelter  of  the  pure,  and  slayer  of  the  wild  ? 

Wild  lily  of  virginity  raised  on  the  fields 
Olympian,  O  mountain  Queen  of  gleaming  bow, 

1  envy  him  who  in  a  careless  hour  did  face 

Thy  beauty's  lightning  with  thy  heartless  vengefulness. 

And  yet  white  like  the  morn,  thou  openest  in  secret 
Thy  lips  thrice  fragrant  with  divine  ambrosia 
And  say  est:     *'  Latona's  deathless  grace  has  moulded 
me 

Under  the  sacred  tree  upon  Ortygia; 

But  now  once  more  upon  the  noble  stone,  the  new 

Maker  has  moulded  me  with  a  new  deathlessness.'* 

1895. 


100 


KOSTES  PALAMAS 


A  FATHER'S  SONG 

0  FIRST-BORN  pride  and  joy  of  my  own  home, 

1  still  remember  thy  coming's  sacred  day: 
The  early  dawn  was  breaking  as  from  pearls, 
Whitening  the  sky  that  spread  star-spangled  still; 

Thou  wert  not  like  the  fresh  and  budding  rose 
In  its  green  mother's  clasp  before  it  opens; 
Thou  earnest  like  a  victim  pitiful 
And  feeble  cast  by  a  rude  hand  among  us. 

And  as  if  thou  wert  seeking  help,  thy  wail 
Rose  sadder  than  the  sound  of  a  death  knell; 
And  thus  the  last  of  thy  own  mother's  groans 

Was  mingled  with  thy  first  lament.     Life's  great 
Drama  began.     I  watch  it,  and  I  feel 
Within  me  Fear's  and  Pity's  mystic  wail! 

18%. 


FATHERLANDS  101 

TO  THE  POET  L.  MAVILES ' 

Thy  soul  is  seeking  tranquil  paths 
Alone;  thou  hatest  barking  mouths; 
And  yet  thy  country's  love  enflames  thee, 
O  maker  of  the  noble  sonnet. 

In  the  white  alabaster  vase 
Filled  with  pure  native  earth,  a  flower 
Of  dream  that  only  few  can  see 
Trembles  and  scatters  fragrances. 

Thy  verse,  the  vase;  thy  mind,  the  flower. 
But  a  hand  broke  the  vase,  and  now 
The  azure  beauty  of  the  flower 

Has  found  a  mate  in  the  powder's  smoke 
Upon  Crete's  Isle,  the  blue  sea's  crown. 
Mother  of  bards  and  tyrant  slayers. 
1896. 

*  Maviles  was  botn  in  Ithaca,  1860,  and  fell  in  the  battle  of  Driscos,  Novem- 
ber 29,  1912.  He  is  the  writer  of  exquisite  sonnets  and  the  successful 
translator  of  various  foreign  poems.  The  Cretan  Revolution  of  1896  is  here 
alluded  to,  which  led  to  the  Greco-Turkish  war  of  1897.  Maviles  was  one 
of  the  first  to  hasten  to  Crete  to  help  in  the  struggle  for  liberty. 


102 


KOSTES  PALAMAS 


IMAGINATION 

1  ime's  spider  lurks  and  lies  in  wait; 
And  on  its  poisoned  claws,  the  beast 
All  watchful  glides,  assails,  and  grasps 
The  ruin.     O  thrice-holy  beauties! 

In  vain  all  props  and  wisdom's  arts! 
In  vain  a  tribe  of  sages  seek 
To  save  it!     Time's  remaining  crumbs 
Are  scattered  far  and  melt  like  frost. 

Then  from  the  lofty  land  of  Thought, 
Imagination  came,  a  goddess 
Among  the  gods,  and  made  again. 

Even  where  until  now  the  ruin 
Crumbled,  what  only  its  hands  can  make 
Deathless  the  first-born  Parthenon. 

1896. 


FATHERLANDS  103 

MAKARIA'S  DEATH 

To  die  for  these,  my  brothers,  and  myself; 
For  by  not  loving  my  own  life  too  much, 
I  found  the  best  of  finds,  a  glorious  death. 

Euripides,  Herakleidae,  532-534. 

On  Athens'  earth,  Zeus  of  the  Market  place 
Sees  Hercules's  children  kneeling  down 
On  his  pure  altar,  strange,  forlorn,  thrice-orphan. 
Fearful  the  Argive  sweeps  on;  duty's  hand 

Is  weak.     The  king  of  Athens  pities  them. 
But  cruel  oracles  vex  him  with  fear: 
**  Lo,  from  thy  blood,  thrice-noble  virgin,  shall 
The  conquerless  new  enemy  be  conquered." 

None  stirs,  alas!     Orphanhood  is  forsaken 

By  all.     Then,  filled  with  pride  of  heroes,  thou, 

Redeemer  of  a  land  and  race,  divine 

Daughter  thrice-worthy  of  the  great  Alcides, 
Plungest  into  thy  breast  the  victim's  sword 
And  diest  a  thrice-free  death,  Makaria. 

1896. 


104  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

TO  PALLIS  1  FOR  HIS  "  ILIAD  » 

r  KOM  cups  that  are  both  ours  and  strange. 

Enameled,  and  adorned  with  leaves 

Of  laurel  and  of  ivy  green. 

We  quaff  the  wine  both  pure  and  mixed. 

The  liquid  that  within  us  burns. 
Or  poured  in  cups  about  us  gleams 
And  bird-like  sings,  brings  us  away 
To  the  far  Isle  of  dreams.     But  thou 

Enviest  not  the  path  of  dreams. 
Nor  sharest  in  our  drunken  revel; 
For  with  our  fathers'  spacious  cup, 

The  strong  and  simple,  thou  hast  brought 
Immortal  water  from  the  spring 
Of  Homer,  thou  0  traveller! 
1903. 


'  Alexandres  Pallis  is  one  of  the  greatest  literary  figures  of  contemporary 
Greece,  who,  like  Psicharis,  has  lived  mostly  far  from  Greece.  He  is  a  poet, 
a  critic,  and  a  satirist.  But  his  fame  is  mainly  due  to  his  translation  of  the 
Iliad  and  that  of  the  New  Testament.  The  publication  of  the  latter  caused 
the  student  riots  of  1901. 


FATHERLANDS  105 

HAIL  TO  THE  RIME 

Cyprus's  shores  have  not  beheld  thee  born  of  foam; 
A  foreign  Vulcan  forged  thee  on  a  diamond  anvil 
With  a  gold  hammer;  and  the  bard  who  touches  thee. 
Bound  with  thy  magic  beauty's  charms,  remains  thy 
thrall. 

The  yearning  prayers  of  a  lover  fondly  loved 
Cannot  accomplish  what  thou  canst,  strange  nightin- 
gale! 
Thy  song  wafts  me  upon  the  tranquil  fields  of  calm 
When  jackals  born  of  woeful  cares  within  me  howl. 

Thy  might  gives  even  sin  a  garment  beautiful; 
And  thought  divine  before  thee  bows  in  reverence. 
Imagination's  ship  sails  with  thy  help  straight  on 

Where  Solomon  and  Croesus  have  their  treasuries. 
To  thee  I  pray !     Answer  my  greeting  lovingly. 
Thou  new  tenth  Muse  among  the  nine  of  old,  O  Rime! 

1896. 


THE   RETURN 

1897 

(1897  is  the  year  of  the  Greco-Turkish  war  which  ended 
disastrously  for  Greece.     See  Introduction,  page  58.) 


DEDICATION 

Mother  thrice  reverend,  0  widowed  saint. 

Upon  thy  shattered  throne  I  come  to  place 

The  crowns  of  Art,  dream-made  and  dream-engraved. 

With  war  storms  desolate,  my  native  land. 

Trod  by  the  Turk  and  by  strangers  scorned  thou  wert; 

Even  thy  child  beholding  thee  in  ruins. 

As  if  the  waters  of  Oblivion 

In  dark  Oblivion's  Dale  had  touched  his  lips. 

Left  thee;  and  thou  didst  writhe  like  a  whole  world 

Engulfed  in  sounds  of  woe:    H air-tearing s  and 

Breast-beatings,  groans  of  sad  despair,  night-bats 

Wandering  restlessly,  unheeded  prayers 

Of  souls  condemned,  loud  thunder  peals,  fierce  glares 

Of  lightnings,  and  the  laughter  of  the  fiends! 

But  lo,  unknown  and  humble  I,  with  calm 
Upon  my  countenance  and  storm  in  mind. 
Far  from  the  panic-stricken  market  place. 
Beneath  tlie  plane  trees'  shade,  and  far  away 

109 


By  the  blood-tinctured  settings  of  the  suns, 
Unruffled,  in  another  land  I  travelled, 
And  deep  I  dug  in  distant  treasure  mines. 
And  with  my  hand,  that  knows  no  rifle'' s  touch. 
Slowly  I  hammered  on  the  crowns  of  art; 
And  if  thou  findest  nowhere  on  their  gleam 
Thine  image  painted,  or  thy  blessed  name 
Written,  thou  hnowest  still,  0  motherland. 
Though  in  thy  woe's  abyss  they  seem  unlike. 
And  though  a  strange  and  careless  glimmer  shines 
On  them,  they  were  created  out  of  thee; 
For  thee  I  made  them;  and  for  thee  I  raised  them. 

Perhaps,  when  in  the  midst  of  wilderness 

And  ruins  thou  first  openest  thine  eyes, 

0  hapless  One,  my  humble  offerings 

Will  not  appear  like  thy  wrath's  threats,  nor  like 

The  joyful  trumpetings  of  thy  reveille. 

Nor  like  an  image  of  thy  passion's  cross, 

Nor  like  thy  sorrow's  dirge,  nor  like  glad  hymns; 

But  like  soft  songs  and  trembling  lights  and  fondlings 

Of  lily  hands,  black  birds,  and  stars  unknown. 


110 


Thus  when,  smitten  with  Charon's  knife  and  sunk 
In  death's  dark  swoon,  a  hapless  mother  feels 
Life's  tide  return,  she  hears  again,  like  first 
Life-summons,  the  anxious  voice  of  her  fond  child, 
A  voice  that  comforts  her  and  tenderly 
Tells  of  a  thousand  tales  of  love  his  fancy 
Weaves  or  his  memory  recalls,  and  drowns 
His  faintest  sigh  not  to  remind  his  mother 
Of  the  unerring  blow  of  Charon's  knife. 

Mother  thrice-reverend,  0  widowed  saint. 
Upon  thy  shattered  throne  I  come  to  place 
The  crowns  of  Art  dream-made  and  dream-engraved. 
Though  they  will  echo  not  thy  sorrow's  groans, 
A  child  of  thine  has  bound  them  on  thine  earth 
With  gold;  upon  their  circles  thine  own  speech 
Is  shown  with  master  tongue;  their  light  is  drawn 
From  thy  sun's  gleaming  fountain;  seek  no  more! 

Only  with  harmony  sublime  and  pure. 
Which,  though  it  rises  over  time  and  space. 
Turns  the  world's  ears  to  his  native  land. 
The  poet  is  the  greatest  patriot. 

Ill 


THE  RETURN 


THE  TEMPLE 


My  knees,  bent  on  thy  marble  pavement,  bleed, 

0  Temple  built  apart  in  wilderness 
For  an  unseen  divinity,  a  goddess 

Who  from  her  being's  deep  abyss  reveals 
Only  a  statue  wrought  by  human  hand 
And  even  covered  with  a  veil  opaque. 

Methinks  I  see  among  thy  sculptured  columns. 
Among  thy  secret  treasures  and  thine  altars, 
Ion,  the  Delphic  priest,  who  lays  aside 
The  snow-white  raiment  of  the  sacrifice 
And  takes  up  the  wayfarer's  knotty  staff. 

1  am  no  ministrant,  nor  have  I  held 

The  dreadful  mystic  key,  nor  have  I  touched 

Boldly  or  timidly  the  sacred  gate 

That  leads  to  Life's  deep-hidden  mysteries. 

One  sinner  more,  O  Temple,  in  the  midst 

Of  sinful  multitudes,  I  come  to  worship. 

lis 


114  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

My  knees,  bent  on  thy  marble  pavement,  bleed; 
I  feel  the  chill  of  night  or  of  the  tomb 
Creeping  upon  me  slowly,  stealthily. 
But  lo,  I  struggle  to  shake  off  the  evil 
That  creeps  on  me  so  cold;  with  longing  heart, 
I  drag  my  bleeding  knees  beyond  thy  walls, 
Out  of  thy  columns  —  forests  stifling  me  — 
Into  the  sunlight  and  the  moon's  soft  glimmer. 

Away  with  prayer's  burning  frankincense! 
Away  with  the  gold  knife  of  the  sacrifice! 
Away  with  choirs  loud-voiced  and  clad  in  white. 
Singing  their  hymns  about  the  flaming  altars! 
Abandoning  thee,  O  Temple,  I  return 
To  the  small  hut  of  the  first  bloom  of  time. 


THE  RETURN  115 


THE  HUT 


O  HUMBLE  hut  of  the  first  bloom  of  time, 

Neither  the  noisy  city's  mingled  Babel, 

Nor  the  most  tranquil  soul  of  the  great  plain. 

Nor  the  gold  cloud  of  dust  on  the  wide  road, 

Nor  the  brook's  course  that  sings  like  nightingales. 

Nothing  of  these  is  either  shown  to  thee 

Or  speaks  before  thy  bare  and  flowerless  window, 

O  humble  hut  of  the  first  bloom  of  time. 

Only  the  neighbor's  step  now  echoes  on 

From  the  rough  pavement  built  in  Turkish  times; 

The  black  wall's  shadow,  on  the  narrow  street; 

And  on  the  lonely  ruins  lightning-struck 

Ere  they  became  the  glory  of  a  house. 

The  nettles  revel  lustful  and  unreaped. 

Beneath  the  bare  and  flowerless  window's  sill, 

A  nest  of  greenish  black,  like  a  small  heart. 

Hangs  tenantless  and  waits  and  waits  and  waits 

In  vain  for  the  return  of  the  first  swallow 

That  has  gone  forth,  its  first  and  last  of  dwellers. 


116  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

O  thirsty  eyes  that  linger  magnet-bound 

On  the  nest's  orphanhood  of  greenish  black! 

O  ears  filled  with  the  terror  of  the  tune 

That  travels  to  the  bare  and  flowerless  window 

High  from  thy  roof  moss-covered  with  neglect, 

O  humble  hut  of  the  first  bloom  of  time! 

It  is  the  tune  the  lone-owl  always  plays 

Blowing  upon  the  cursed  flute  of  night 

Its  lingering  shrill  notes  of  mournful  measure, 

Herald  of  woe  and  prophet  of  all  ill. 


THE  RETURN  117 

THE  RING 

The  ring  is  lost  I  The  wedding  ring  is  gone! 

A  folk  song. 

My  mother  planned  a  wedding  feast  for  me 

And  chose  me  for  a  wife  a  Nereid, 

A  tender  flower  of  beauty  and  of  faith. 

My  mother  wished  to  wed  me  with  thy  charms, 

0  Fairy  Life,  thou  first  of  Nereids! 

And  hastily  she  goes  to  seek  advice, 

Begging  for  gold  from  every  sorceress 

And  powerful  witch,  and  gold  from  forty  brides 

Whose  wedding  crowns  are  fresh  upon  their  brows; 

And  making  with  the  gold  a  ring  enchanted. 

She  puts  it  on  my  finger  and  she  binds 

With  golden  bond  my  youthful  human  flesh 

To  the  strange  Fairy  —  how  strange  a  wedding  ring !  — 

1  was  the  boy  that  always  older  grew 
With  the  transporting  passion  of  a  pair 
Bethrothed  who,  lured  by  longing,  countenance 
Their  wedding  moment  as  an  endless  feast 
Upon  a  bridal  bed  of  lily  white. 


118  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

The  boy  I  was  that  always  older  grew 
Gold-bound  with  Life,  the  Fairy  conqueress; 
The  boy  I  was  that  always  older  grew 
With  love  and  thirst  unquenchable  for  Life; 
The  boy  I  was  that  always  older  grew 
Destined  to  tread  upon  a  path  untrod 
Amidst  the  light,  illumined.     I  was  he 
Whose  brow  like  an  Olympian  victor's  shone 
And  like  the  man's  who  tamed  Bucephalus. 
I  was  the  nimble  dolphin  with  gold  wings, 
Arion's  watchful  and  quick  deliverer. 

But  then,  one  day,  —  I  know  not  whence  and  how 
Upon  a  shore  of  sunburned  sands,  the  hour 
Of  early  evening  saddened  with  dark  clouds, 
I  wrestled  with  a  strange  black  boy  new-come. 
Risen  to  life  from  the  great  sea's  abyss; 
And  in  the  savage  spite  of  that  long  struggle. 
The  ring  fell  from  my  finger  and  was  gone! 

Did  the  great  earth  engulf  it  ?    Did  the  wave 
Swallow  it  ?     I  know  not.     But  this  I  know: 
For  ever  since,  the  binding  spell  is  rent! 


THE  RETURN  119 

And  Fairy  Life,  the  first  of  Nereids, 

My  own  bethrothed,  that  was  my  slave  and  queen. 

Vanished  away  like  a  fleet  cloud  of  smoke! 

And  ever  since,  from  my  first-blooming  youth 
To  the  first  flakes  of  silver  that  now  fall 
On  the  black  forest  of  my  hair,  since  then. 
Some  power  dumb  and  dreadful  holds  me  bound 
With  a  mere  shadow  fleeting  and  unknown 
That  seems  not  to  exist,  yet  ever  longs 
And  vainly  strives  to  enter  into  being. 

And  now  I  am  Life's  widowed  mate  and  hapless, 

Life's  great  and  careless  patient!     Woe  is  me! 

And  I  am  like  the  fair  Alcithoe, 

Daughter  of  the  ancient  king,  who  changed  her  form 

And  as  a  sign  of  the  gods'  vengeful  wrath 

Is  now  instead  of  princess  a  night-bat! 


120  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

THE  CORD  GRASS  FESTIVAL 

See  far  away,  what  a  glad  festival 

The  golden  grasses  on  the  meadow  weave! 

A  festival  thrice-fragrant  with  blond  flowers! 

With  the  sweet  sunrise  sweetly  wakening, 

I  also  wish  to  join  the  festival 

And,  like  a  treasure  reaper,  to  embrace 

Masses  of  flowers  blond  and  fresh  with  dew. 

And  then  to  squander  all  my  flower  treasure 

At  my  love's  feet,  for  my  heart's  ruling  queen. 

But  the  gold-spangled  meadow  spreads  too  deep; 

And,  just  as  mourning  for  some  dead  deprives 

A  life  rejoicing  with  its  twenty  years 

Of  its  light  raiments  of  a  lily-white, 

So  is  my  swift  and  merry  way  cut  short 

By  a  bad  way  that  lies  between,  without 

An  end,  beset  with  brambles  and  with  marshes! 

The  thorny  plants  tear  like  an  enemy's  claws; 
And  like  bird-lime  the  bad  plain's  mire  ensnares 
My  feet  among  the  brambles  and  the  marshes. 


THE  RETURN  121 

Where,  in  the  parching  sun's  enflaming  shafts, 
The  brine,  like  silver  lightning,  strikes  my  eyes! 

Where  is  the  coolness  of  a  breath  ?     Where  is 

The  covering  shadow  of  a  leafy  tree  ? 

I  faint!    My  frame  is  bent!     My  way  is  lost! 

I  droop  exhausted  on  the  briny  earth. 

And  in  my  lethargy  I  feel  the  thorns 

Upon  my  brow;  the  bitter  brine  upon 

My  lips;  the  sultriness  of  the  south  wind 

Upon  my  hands;  the  kisses  of  the  marsh 

Upon  my  feet;  the  rushes'  fondling  on 

My  breast;  and  the  hard  fate  and  impotence 

Of  this  bare  world  within  me. 

Where  art  thou. 
My  love  ? 

See  far,  in  depths  of  purple  sunsets 

Gorgeously  painted,  the  glad  festival 

That  golden  grasses  on  the  meadow  weave. 

The  festival  thrice-fragrant  with  blond  flowers. 

Sees  me,  and  calls  me  still,  and  waits  for  me! 


122  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

THE  FAIRY 

When  in  the  evening  on  my  hut  the  moon 
Spreads  her  soft  silver  nets  that  dreams  have  wrought, 
The  hut  is  caught,  and,  by  the  net  bewitched, 
It  changes  and  becomes  a  lofty  tower. 

And  then,  unseen  by  the  Day's  Sun,  the  father 
Of  Health,  the  rosy-cheeked,  who  always  sees 
All  things  with  careless  and  short-sighted  eyes, 
A  monstrous  vision  lo,  the  Fairy  Illness, 
Stripped  in  the  silver  glimmer  of  the  moon. 
Herself  of  moonlight  born,  looms  into  sight 
Slowly  in  the  enchanted  tower's  midst! 

In  whitening  shimmers,  she,  like  sea  at  night. 

Advances  with  the  step  of  sleeping  men; 

Death's  pallor  is  her  own,  though  not  Death's  chill; 

Her  ivory  skeleton  is  mantled  by 

A  fleshy  cover  made  of  fiery  air; 

The  uncouth  flowers  on  her  dragging  veil 

Seem,  like  the  poppies,  crimson  red  and  black; 

And  still  more  uncouth  look  the  countless  things 


THE  RETURN  123 

Wrought  on  its  folds :  dragons  and  ogresses, 
Fevers  and  lethargies  and  pains  of  heart. 
Nightmares  and  storms  and  earthquakes,  breaking 
nerves. 

Delirium  flies  from  her  burning  lips, 

A  language  made  of  odd,  discordant  rhythms. 

To  nothing,  either  hers  or  strange,  her  eyes 

Are  like;  deep,  as  abyss  untrod,  they  yawn. 

And  seem  as  if  they  gaze  immovable 

On  empty  space.    Yet  shouldst  thou  stoop  with  thirst 

To  mirror  on  her  staring  eyes  thine  own, 

Then  wouldst  thou  see  worlds  buried  in  their  caves, 

Like  ruined  cities  of  whole  centuries, 

Sunk  in  the  fairy-spangled  oceans'  depths ! 


124  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

OUT  IN  THE  OPEN  LIGHT 

Out  in  the  open  light,  the  Sun  is  shining, 

Father  of  Health,  Health  rosy  cheeked,  whose  breasts 

Are  full,  and  yield  their  milk  abundantly; 

She  only  sees  those  things  of  flesh  about 

Which  her  divine  sun-father  shows  to  her; 

And  her  unconquerable  iron  hands 

Are  matched  with  careless  and  short-sighted  eyes. 

Out  in  the  open  light,  even  the  moon. 

The  Sibyl,  clothed  in  white,  appears,  with  glance 

Lyncean,  piercing  deep  and  bringing  forth 

From  the  world's  ends  great  hosts  of  monstrous  things. 

The  monsters  born  of  shadows  and  of  dreams. 


THE  RETURN  125 


FIRST  LOVE 


When  in  my  breast  I  felt  my  first-born  love, 

Thrice-noble  maiden  of  compliant  heart, 

I  was  possessed  with  the  strange  fear  that  filled 

The  youthful  princess  of  the  ancient  tale 

At  sight  of  the  black  man's  enchanted  rod. 

O  mate,  who  madest  first  my  early  years 
Blossom,  too  soon  thou  fleddest  far  from  me 
Nor  sawest  me  again!     Wild  Fairies  took 
My  speech,  and  evil  demons  seized  my  all; 
Yet  soul  and  body,  my  whole  being  shivers 
From  that  awakening  thou  sangest  me. 
Eternal  Woman!     Thou  wert  what  far  Mecca 
Is  for  the  faithful's  prayer  to  his  prophet. 
O  far  off  Mecca!     O  eternal  Fear 
Of  white  Desire  upon  the  shining  wings 
Of  a  black  sinner!     O  king  Love,  chased  like 
Orestes,  by  a  Fury  serpent-haired! 


126  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

THE  MADMAN 

A  MADMAN  chased  my  early  childhood  years 
Thrice-sweet  and  blossoming,  and  seizing  them  — 
Alas !  —  he  crushed  them  in  his  reckless  fury 
Like  twigs  of  purple-colored  pomegranate ! 

He  scattered  them  in  pieces  everywhere: 

Into  the  joyless  house  and  in  the  yard, 

On  narrow  streets,  and  paths,  and  pathless  haunts. 

Where  persecution  raves,  and  menace  dumb 

Chills  all  away  from  the  pure  light  and  air. 

The  madman's  cursed  hands  hold  everything 

With  snares  and  claws  and  stones  and  knives;  they  fall 

On  loneliness  and  on  embracings,  night 

Or  day,  on  sleep  or  wake,  and  everywhere! 

And  yonder  on  the  streets  and  in  the  houses. 
Children  like  me  in  age,  whose  years  were  filled 
With  bloom  and  sweetness,  freely  ran  and  laughed 
And  played.     Behind  me,  close,  the  madman's  snares 
I  heard;  and  then,  the  deadened  sound  of  feet! 
I  breathed  his  flaming  breath!    And  if  his  steps 
Were  slow,  still  wilder  did  his  laughter  hunt  me! 


THE  RETURN  127 

Oh,  for  my  life's  cold  quiverings  of  pain! 
Oh,  for  the  goading  —  not  like  the  divine 
Goading  that  drove  the  maid  of  Inachus, 
lo,  to  wander  on  and  on  in  frenzy;  — 
But  like  the  sudden  goading  that  smites  down 
The  little  bird  when  first  it  tries  its  wings! 
And  lo,  blood  of  my  blood  the  madman  was! 
A  past,  ancestral,  long  forgotten  sin. 
That,  bursting  forth  upon  me  vampire-like. 
Snatched  from  my  head  the  dewy  crown  of  joy ! 


128  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

OUR  HOME 

Our  home  has  not  the  ugly  clamoring 
Nor  the  dumb  stillness  of  the  other  homes 
About  and  opposite.     For  in  our  home 
Rare  birds  sing  forth  uncommon  melodies; 
And  in  our  home-yard  a  young  offshoot  grows, 
Sprung  from  Dodona's  tree  oracular! 
And  in  the  garden  of  our  home,  full  thick, 
The  ironworts  and  snakeroots  blossom  on; 
And  in  our  home  the  magic  mirror  shines 
Reflecting  always  in  its  gleaming  glass 
The  visage  of  the  world  thrice- wonderful ! 

The  silence  of  our  home  is  full  of  moans. 
Moans  vague  and  muffled  from  a  distant  world 
Of  bygone  ages  and  of  times  unborn; 
And  in  our  home  souls  come  to  life  and  die. 
Blossom  from  blossom  blossoms  forth  and  fades! 
Old  men  have  the  white,  rich,  Levitic  beard. 
The  foreheads  wide  of  solemn  contemplation, 
The  wrath  of  prophets,  and  the  fleeting  calm 
And  chilling  threatfulness  of  the  gray  shadows. 


THE  RETURN  129 

Glowing  with  love-heat  like  resistless  Satyrs, 

The  young  men  in  the  mind's  most  shady  glades 

Hunt  ardently  the  bride  that  is  pure  thought. 

The  children  drop  their  playthings  carelessly, 

And,  standing  in  a  corner  motionless, 

Open  their  eyes  in  thought  like  men  full-grown. 

And  all,  ancestors  and  descendants,  young 

Or  old,  have  ways  that  challenge  ridicule 

And  have  the  word  that  bursting  forth  makes  slaves ! 

But  still  more  beautiful  and  pure  than  these, 
An  harmony  fit  for  the  chosen  few 
Fills  with  its  ringing  sounds  our  dwelling  place, 
A  lightning  sent  from  Sinai  and  a  gleam 
From  great  Olympus,  like  the  mingling  sounds 
Of  David's  harp  and  Pindar's  lyre  conversing 
In  the  star-spangled  darkness  of  the  night. 


130  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

THE  DEAD 

vViTHiN  this  place,  I  breathe  a  dead  man's  soul; 
And  the  dead  man,  a  blond  and  beardless  youth! 
A  youthful  light  and  blond  stirs  in  our  home; 
And  moments  fly,  and  days  and  years  and  ages. 
The  dead  man's  soul  is  in  this  lonely  house 
Like  bitter  quiet  about  a  calm-bound  ship 
That  longs  for  the  sea-paths,  and  dreams  of  storms. 

All  faces,  smoked  with  the  faint  smoke  that  glides 
From  candles  lighting  death!     All  eyes,  still  fixed 
On  a  sad  coffin!    And  the  mute  lips,  tinged 
With  the  last  kiss's  bitterness,  still  tremble. 
As  for  a  prayer,  hands  are  raised,  and  feet 
Move  quietly  as  behind  a  funeral. 
The  snow-white  nakedness  of  the  cold  walls 
And  black  luxuriance  of  the  mourning  robes 
Are  like  discordant  music  of  two  tunes. 

The  children's  step  is  light  in  thoughtful  care 
Lest  they  disturb  the  slumber  of  the  dead. 
The  old  men,  bent  as  at  a  pit's  dark  end, 


THE  RETURN  131 

Lean  on  the  virgins'  shoulders,  virgins  fair 

Like  fates  benevolent  and  comforting. 

The  young  men  seek  on  endless  paths  to  find 

In  Wisdom's  hands  the  weed  Oblivion. 

And  on  the  window  shutters  that  are  closed, 

The  clay  pots  with  their  flowers  seem  to  be 

A  dead  man's  wreath;  and  the  lone  ray  that  glides 

Through  the  small  fissure  is  transformed  within 

Into  a  taper's  light  on  All  Souls'  Day. 

The  candle  burning  at  the  sacred  image  ' 

Is  flickering  and  snaps  as  if  it  wrestled 

With  death.     At  moments,  led  astray,  comes  here 

A  butterfly  of  varied  wings  and  brings 

In  airy  flesh  the  Ave  of  the  soul 

That  did  enchant  the  house,  the  house  that  seems 

Glad  for  its  dead  yet  loves  and  longs  for  him. 

The  dead  blond  youth,  and  claims  him  as  its  own! 

And  luring  him,  that  it  might  hold  for  ever 

Its  chosen  love  relentlessly,  it  has 

Now  changed  its  form  and  turned  from  house  to  grave! 


132  KOSTES  P.\LA^L\S 


THE  co:mrade 


O  BOY  of  the  glad  school  of  seven  years, 

With  thy  tall  form,  a  shadow  of  all  thou  wert. 

Thy  voice  had  sweetness  never  heard  before, 

A  font  of  holy  water  of  which  all 

Partook  with  fear  and  longing!     We  forgot 

With  thee  the  book  and  laughed  thy  merry  laughter; 

Thou  didst  tear  lifeless  readings  from  our  minds 

Together  with  the  pedant's  torpid  mullen, 

And  didst  sow  deep  into  our  hearts  the  seed 

Of  the  gold  tree  that  dazzles  with  its  light, 

And  charms,  and  is  a  tale  most  wonderful! 

The  princesses,  with  valiant  heroes  mated, 
Shone  in  the  hauntless  palace  of  our  thought, 
First-bom;  and  on  imagination's  meadow. 
Another  April  bloomed.     We  saw  Saint  George, 
The  rider,  slay  the  dragon  and  redeem 
The  maiden.     They  were  not  letters  that  thy  hand's 
White  clay  did  write,  but  like  the  mystic  seal 
Of  Solomon,  it  scratched  a  magic  knot; 


THE  RETURN  133 

And  thy  forefinger  moved  within  thy  hand 
Like  fair  Dionysus'  thyrsus  blossoming! 

Amidst  the  restless  swarm  of  humming  children, 

We  had  the  clamor;  and  thou  hadst  the  honey. 

Turning  attention  to  a  prayer,  thou, 

O  comrade  of  the  early  years  that  bloomed, 

O  chosen  being,  unforgettable, 

Worthy  of  everlasting  memory! 

Wherever  thou  still  art  or  wanderest; 

Whomever  thou  hast  followed  of  the  two 

Women,  who,  in  the  past,  did  stir  Alcmena's 

Great  son,  after  thou  camest  upon  them 

On  some  crosspath;  whether  thou  blossomest 

Like  the  pure  lily,  or  tower-like  thou  risest; 

Whether  thou  art  neglected  like  a  crumb, 

Shinest  as  thy  country's  pride,  or  art  alone, 

A  stranger  among  strangers  wandering; 

Whether  life's  riddle  or  the  grave's  holds  thee; 

Whatever  and  wherever  thou  now  art, 

O  brother  mine  and  mate,  from  my  lips  here 

Accept  my  distant  kiss  with  godlike  grace! 


134  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

RHAPSODY 

Homer  divine!     Joy  of  all  time  and  glory! 

When  in  the  coldness  of  a  frigid  school, 

Upon  the  barrenness  of  a  hard  bench, 

My  teacher's  graceless  hands  placed  thee  before  me, 

O  peerless  book,  what  I  had  thought  would  be 

A  lesson,  proved  a  mighty  miracle! 

The  heavens  opened  wide  and  clear  in  me; 
The  sea,  a  sapphire  sown  with  emerald; 
The  bench  became  a  throne  palatial; 
The  school,  a  world;  the  teacher,  a  great  bard! 

It  was  not  reading  nor  the  fruit  of  thought: 
A  vision  it  was  that  shone  most  wonderful, 
A  melody  my  ears  had  never  heard. 

In  the  great  cavern  that  a  forest  deep 

Of  poplars  and  of  cypresses  encircles. 

In  the  great  fragrant  cavern  that  the  glow 

Of  burning  cedar  beats  with  pleasant  warmth. 

Calypso  of  the  shining  hair  spins  not 

Her  web  with  golden  shuttle;  nor  sings  she 


THE  RETURN  135 

With  limpid  voice.     But  lifting  up  her  hands, 
She  pours  her  curses  from  her  flaming  heart 
Against  the  jealous  gods: 

"  O  mortal  men 
Adored  by  the  immortal  goddesses, 
Who  on  Olympus  shared  with  you  their  love's 
Ambrosia,  and  mortals  crushed  to  dust 
By  jealous  gods!  .  .  ." 

The  goddess's  awful  curse 
Makes  the  fresh  celeries  and  violets  fade, 
And,  like  the  hail  sent  by  the  heaven's  wrath. 
It  burns  the  clusters  on  the  fruitful  vines! 

The  hero  far  renowned  of  Ithaca 
Alone  heeds  not  the  flaming  curse,  that  he, 
A  wanderer,  in  the  Nymph's  heart  did  light 
Unwittingly.     But  sea-wrecked  and  sea-beaten. 
He  sits  without,  immovable,  with  eyes 
Fixed  far  away;  and  thus  remembering 
His  native  island's  shores,  for  ever  weeps 
Upon  the  coast  and  near  the  sea  thrice-deep. 
The  white  sea-gull  that  often  in  its  flight 
Plunges  its  wings  into  the  brine  to  catch 


136  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

The  fish,  and  the  lone  falcon  perched  afar 
In  the  deep  forest,  lonely  and  remote. 
Listen  and  answer  to  the  hero's  wail. 

Oh,  for  my  phantasy's  revealed  first  vision! 

Oh,  for  the  baring  of  the  beautifiJ 

Before  me!     Lo,  the  dusty,  dark-brown  land 

Changes  into  a  Nymph's  isle  lily-white! 

The  humble  fisher  lass  upon  the  rock. 

Into  Calypso  of  the  shining  hair,  love-born! 

My  heart,  a  traveller  into  a  thousand 

Lands,  thirsting  for  one  country,  which  is  love! 

And  lo,  my  soul  is,  ever  since,  a  lyre 
Of  double  strings  that  echoes  with  its  sound 
The  harmony  thrice  ancient,  curse  or  wail ! 
Joy  of  all  time  and  glory,  godlike  Homer! 


THE  RETURN  137 


IDYL 


Now  when  the  tide  has  covered  all  the  land, 

Making  the  pier  a  sea,  the  street  a  strand, 

And  the  boat  casts  anchor  at  my  threshold; 

Now  when  I  see,  wherever  I  may  glance. 

The  water's  victory,  the  billow's  glory, 

And  see  the  rising  tide  a  ruling  empress; 

Now  when  a  playful  and  good-minded  flood 

Closes  about  the  houses,  plants,  and  men 

Fondly,  in  a  soft-flowing,  sweet  embrace; 

Now  when  the  air,  the  planter  of  the  tree 

Of  Health,  raised  by  the  great  sea's  breath,  digs  deep 

Into  the  open  breasts  of  living  things; 

Now,  I  remember  her,  the  little  lass 

Who  had  the  sea's  pure  dew,  and,  like  a  wave 

Resistless,  surpassed  the  tide  in  vehemence. 

Now  I  recall  the  little  nimble  lass, 

Life's  victory,  blossoming  youth's  proud  glory, 

And  joy's  own  throne.     Now  I  remember  her. 


138  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

Her  face  was  like  a  cloudless  early  dawn; 

Her  hair  like  moonlight  shimmering  upon 

The  restless  wave;  her  passing,  like  the  flash 

Of  a  swift  fish  that  in  the  night  swims  by 

Upon  its  silver  path;  her  eyes  were  tinged 

With  the  deep  color  of  the  sea  beneath 

Black  clouds;  her  voice,  the  sound  of  a  calm  night 

Upon  the  beach;  her  chiseled  dimples  twin 

Upon  her  cheeks  were  overfilled  with  smiles 

That  Loves  might  drink  from  them  to  slake  their  thirst. 

Boy-like,  she  stepped  on  nimble  foot  and  free, 
Boldly  and  daringly  with  fearless  look, 
A  child's  soul  dwelling  in  a  woman's  flesh. 

And  when  the  high  tide  covered  all  the  land. 
Making  the  pier  a  sea,  the  street  a  strand. 
And  when  the  boat  cast  anchor  at  my  threshold. 
Then  from  her  home  the  little  girl  came  forth 
Half  bare,  haK  clad,  robed  in  the  robe  of  light 
In  a  swift  dancing  flood  that  revelled  full 
Of  water-lust  and  crowns  of  seething  foam. 


THE  RETURN  139 

She  gave  her  orders  to  the  sea;  she  ruled 
The  tide  and  forward  drove  the  foaming  waves. 
Just  as  a  shepherd  lass,  her  white-clad  sheep. 
Her  native  country,  first  and  last,  the  sea! 
And  whenever  she  passed,  a  Venus  new 
Seemed  rising  from  the  shining  water's  depths. 

The  fisherman,  a  primitive  world's  breed. 
The  sum  of  Christian  and  of  Satyr  blood, 
Returning  from  his  fruitful  fishing  path, 
Looked  upon  her  as  on  an  evil  tempter 
And  on  a  sacred  image;  and  his  oars 
Hung  on  his  hands  inert  as  palsy  stricken. 
And  the  swift- winging  bark  stood  like  a  rock; 
And,  marble-like,  the  fisherman  within 
Gazed  with  religious  trembling  and  desire. 
Exclaiming  as  in  trance:     "  O  holy  Virgin!  " 


140  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

AT  THE  WINDMILL 

About  the  windmill,  the  old  ruin,  when 

The  smile  of  dawn  shines  in  its  rosy  tinge, 

The  fisherboys  now  stir  the  silent  air 

With  sudden  rmging  shouts  and  joyful  plays; 

And  the  light  barks  that,  fastened,  wait  their  commg. 

Flutter  impatiently  like  flapping  wings 

Of  birds  whose  feet  are  bound.     And  all  about, 

The  lake-like  sea  revels  in  shimmers  white 

Like  a  wide-open  pearl  shell  on  the  beach. 

About  the  windmill,  the  old  ruin,  when 

The  noon's  beams  burn  like  red-hot  iron  bars, 

A  laden  sleep  draws  with  its  heavy  breath 

All  weary  skippers  and  all  mariners: 

The  harpoons  creak  not  in  the  hand's  hard  clasp; 

The  fish  alone  stir  in  the  realm  of  dew; 

The  calm  lagoon  about  is  all  agleam, 

A  shield  of  silver,  plaited  with  pure  gold. 

Far  by  the  windmill,  the  old  ruin,  when 
The  sun  is  setting,  decked  in  all  his  glory. 


THE  RETURN  141 

The  boys  go  running,  looking  for  pumice  stones; 

And  lads  and  lasses,  for  sweet  furtive  glances; 

And  old  men,  lingering  for  memories. 

Old  age  is  calm,  and  youth  considerate. 

And  the  lagoon  about,  a  purple  glow, 

A  garden  thickly  planted  with  blue  gentians. 

Far  by  the  windmill,  the  old  ruin,  when 

The  secret  midnight  glides  by  silently. 

Sea  Nereids,  brought  on  the  wings  of  air 

From  the  sea  caves  of  Fairies  on  their  steeds 

Of  mist  with  manes  of  radiating  light. 

Sing  songs,  and  bathe  their  diamond  forms,  and  love, 

While  round  about  the  princess-like  lagoon 

Wears  as  her  royal  robe  the  star-spun  sky. 

Far  by  the  windmill,  the  old  ruin,  ere 

The  smile  of  dawn  shine  with  its  rosy  tinge. 

The  hosts  of  tyrant  slayers  mount  from  below 

And  kiss  the  earth  war-nurtured  and  war-glad. 

They  raise  again  the  ruin  to  a  castle 

With  rifles  singing  back  to  victories; 

And  the  lagoon  is  full  of  flashes  swift. 

Like  a  dark  eye  kindled  with  fiery  wrath. 


142  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

\MIAT  THE  LAGOON  SAYS 

I  HAVE  the  sweetness  of  the  lake  and  have 

The  bitterness  of  the  great  sea.     But  now, 

Alas !     my  sweetness  is  a  little  drop ; 

My  bitterness,  a  flood.     For  the  cold  winter, 

The  great  corsair,  has  come  with  the  north  wind. 

Death's  king.     My  azure  blood  has  slowly  flowed 

Out  of  my  veins  and  gone  to  bring  new  life 

To  the  deep  seas.     A  shroud  weed-woven  wraps  me. 

My  little  islands  as  my  tombstones  stand, 
And  yonder  well-built  weirs  are  like  young  trees 
That  droop  above  my  grave  bereft  of  water. 

But  even  so  in  the  death's  cold  clasp,  I  hear 
Within  my  breast  a  secret  voiceless  flutter 
Like  the  young  fish's  flurry  when,  transfixed. 
It  is  dragged  by  the  spear  out  of  the  sea. 
For  I  still  dream  of  the  sweet  breath  of  love. 
And  wait  for  the  hot  summer's  kiss  and  yours, 
O  angels  of  good  tidings  and  new  life. 
Spring  breezes,  sources  of  my  dreams  and  love! 


THE  RETURN  143 


PINKS 


Faik  pinks,  with  your  breath,  I  have  drunk  your  soul! 
Brown  is  the  fisherman,  and  brown  the  land 
With  the  sea  brine,  the  south  wind,  and  the  sun; 
And  round  the  brown  land's  neck,  like  necklace 
Of  coral,  grow  the  pinks.     Pinks  of  the  gardens, 
And  pinks  of  the  windows;  pinks  like  crowns  and  stars; 
Gifts  good  for  any  hand,  and  ornaments 
For  any  breast.     O  flowers  blossoming 
In  pleasant  rows  along  the  houses'  stairs. 
You  sprinkle  each  man's  path  with  fragrances; 
And  now  and  then,  you  bow,  touched  by  the  dress 
Of  the  young  girl  who,  breeze-like,  passes  by. 

Pinks  full  and  pinks  faint-colored;  flowers  that  cause 

No  languor  as  the  roses  nor  refresh. 

Like  jasmines,  flesh  and  soul;  but  whose  scent  has 

Something  of  the  sharp  breath  of  the  lagoon. 

Even  when  you  are  pale  like  fainting  virgins, 

And  even  when  a  world-destroying  fire 

Enflames  your  petals  without  burning  you ! 


144  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

Pinks,  that  display  now  your  form's  nakedness 

Like  children's  bodies  freshly  bathed,  and  now 

The  varied  ornaments  of  senseless  dwarfs. 

And  now  the  purple  of  great  emperors! 

All  the  transporting  music  of  the  red, 

Like  that  of  many  tuneful  instruments. 

Springs  from  your  heart  and  knows  no  end,  but  plays 

Before  my  eyes  its  lasting  harmonies. 

Sweet  pinks,  with  your  breath,  I  have  drunk  your  soul ! 


THE  RETURN  145 


RUINS 


I  TURNED  back  to  the  golden  haunts  of  childhood, 
And  back  on  the  white  path  of  youth;  I  turned 
To  see  the  wonder  palace  built  for  me 
Once  by  the  holy  hands  of  sacred  Loves. 

The  path  was  hidden  by  the  thorny  briars; 
The  golden  haunts,  burned  by  the  midday  sun; 
An  earthquake  brought  the  wonder  palace  low; 

And  now  amidst  the  ruins  and  ashes,  I 
Am  left  alone  and  palsy-stricken;  snakes 
And  lizzards,  pains  and  hatreds  dwell  now  here 
In  constant  loathful  brotherhood  with  me. 
An  earthquake  brought  the  wonder  palace  low ! 


146  KOSTES  PALAMAS 


PENELOPE 


Waks  distant,  tempests  wild,  and  foreign  lands 
Keep  thy  life-mate  for  years  and  years  away; 
Dangers  and  scornings  threaten  thee;  and  care 
With  guile  and  wrath  gird  thee,  Penelope. 

About  thee,  enemies  and  revellers! 

But  thou  wilt  hear,  and  look,  and  wait  for  none 

But  him;  and  on  thy  loom  thou  weavest  always 

And  then  un weavest  the  thread  of  thy  true  love, 

Penelope. 

Than  Europe's  goods  and  Asia's 

Even  a  greater  treasure  is  thy  kiss; 

Thy  loom,  much  higher  than  a  royal  throne; 

Thy  brow  an  altar,  O  Penelope! 

Mortals  and  gods  know  only  one  more  priceless 
Than  thine  own  loom,  thy  forehead,  or  thy  kiss: 
Thy  mate,  the  king  thou  always  longest  for, 
Penelope.     Yet  even  though  strange  lands 
Keep  him  away  from  thee,  and  distant  wars. 
And  monstrous  Scyllas,  and  the  guileful  Sirens, 
Not  even  they  can  blot  him  from  thy  soul, 
Him,  thy  thought's  whitest  light,  Penelope! 


THE  RETURN  147 

A  NEW  ODE  BY  THE  OLD  ALCAEUS 

1  o  Lesbos'  shores,  where  the  year's  seasons  always 
Sprinkle  the  field  with  flowers,  and  where  glad 
The  rosy -footed  Graces  always  play 
With  the  young  maidens,  once  the  stream  of  Hebrus, 
Hand-like,  brought  Orpheus'  orphan  lyre;  and  since 
That  time,  our  island  is  a  sacred  shrine 
Of  Harmony,  and  its  wind's  breath,  a  song! 

The  soul  Aeolian  took  up  the  lyre 

Born  upon  Thracian  lands,  as  foster  child; 

And  on  its  golden  strings  the  restless  beatings 

Of  Sappho's  and  Erinna's  flaming  hearts 

Were  echoed  burningly. 

And  I,  who  fight 
Always  against  blind  mobs  and  tyrants  deaf, 
I,  the  pride  of  the  chosen  few,  the  stay 
Of  the  great  best,  returning  from  exile, 
A  billow-tossed  world-wanderer,  did  stir 
The  selfsame  lyre  with  a  new  quill  and  breathed 
Upon  its  strings  a  new  heroic  breath. 


148  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

Upon  the  love-adorned  and  verdant  island, 

Like  a  god's  trident,  now  Alcaeus'  quill 

Wakens  the  storm  of  sounds,  and  angrily 

He  strikes  with  words  that  are  like  poisoned  arrows 

Direct  and  merciless  against  his  foe. 

Whether  a  Pittacus  or  Myrsilus. 

In  vain  did  tender  love  reveal  before  me 
On  rose-beds  Lycus,  the  young  lad,  with  eyes 
And  hair  coal-black,  with  rosy  garlands  bound. 
And  Sappho  of  the  honeyed  smile,  the  pure, 
A  muse  among  the  muses,  and  the  mother 
Of  a  strange  modesty.     Love  moved  me  not! 

I  raised  an  altar  to  the  war-god  Ares; 
And  on  my  walls,  I  hung  war  ornaments. 
Weapons  exulting  in  the  battle's  roar. 
I  sang  of  the  sword  bound  with  ivory, 
My  brother's  spoil  from  distant  Babylon. 
I  saw  my  hapless  country's  ship  tossed  here 
And  there,  and  beaten  by  the  giant  waves 
Of  anarchy;  and  with  my  golden  Lyre, 
Whose  voice  is  mightier  than  the  wild  fury 


THE  RETURN  149 

Of  a  tempestuous  sea,  I  called  on  War, 
The  War  who  revels  in  men's  blood,  to  come 
As  a  destroyer  or  deliverer. 

And  when  the  war  did  come  in  savage  din. 
Brought  upon  Lesbos  by  the  might  of  Athens, 
With  heart  exultant,  I  saluted  him: 
"  Hail,  war  of  glory!  " 

Yet,  alas  and  thrice 
Alas!     Amidst  the  world  of  death  and  ruins. 
Though  eager  warrior  and  heavy  armed, 
I  felt  the  solid  earth  beneath  me  shake; 
My  vengefulness,  fade  into  fleeting  mist; 
My  breastplate,  press  on  me  like  a  nightmare; 
And  my  white-crested  helmet,  like  a  tombstone! 

Confusion  was  my  harbor;  and  I  felt 

In  me  Life's  longing  win  the  victory. 

And  while  the  nations  twain,  like  maddened  bulls 

Goad-driven,  rushed  upon  each  other's  death, 

And  stern  Alecto  spread  about  the  flames 

Of  Tartarus,  I  saw  before  mine  eyes 

—  O  sight  enchanting !  —  Lesbos'  luring  shores ! 


150  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

Never  before  wece  they  so  beautiful 
With  love  and  verdant!     There  I  gazed  on  Lycus, 
The  boy  with  eyes  and  hair  coal-black  that  never 
Before  had  touched  my  heart  so  powerfully. 
And  the  Muse  Sappho  of  the  honeyed  smile 
Glittered  before  me,  pure  and  violet  crowned; 
And  her  strange  modesty  bewitched  my  tongue 
With  power  unwonted  until  then;  and  I, 
The  strong,  silently  feasted  on  her  beauty ! 

And  while  about  the  maddened  Ares  raged. 
Reaper  of  men  and  vanquisher  of  rocks, 
With  my  soul's  eyes,  I  followed  on  the  trail 
Of  the  Lyre-God,  who  passed  that  way,  returning 
From  the  Hyperboreans'  land.     He  passed 
Aloft,  crowned  with  a  golden  diadem. 
Upon  a  chariot  drawn  by  snow-white  swans, 
Towards  his  Delphic  palaces,  flower-decked. 
With  nightingales  and  April  on  his  train. 


THE  RETURN  151 

Oh,  would  that  I  might  live  to  touch  them!     Would 
That  I  might  hold  their  charms  in  my  embrace, 
Those  charms  so  sweet  and  guileful  and  divine! 

And  at  the  thought  —  alas,  and  thrice  alas !  — 
I  threw  my  trusted  sword  and  shield  away. 
And  fled,  a  shameful  coward  and  a  traitor! 


FRAGMENTS  FROM  THE  SONG 

TO  THE  SUN 

1899 


IMAGINATION 

Imagination,  mistress,  come! 
Come  thou  leading  master,  mind! 
And  you,  0  tireless  workers,  come, 
Water-Fairies  of  the  Rhythm! 
Come,  and  from  Desire's  great  depths. 
And  from  the  Reason's  lofty  heights, 
Bring,  oh  bring  me  lasting  flowers 
Wrought  on  marble  and  on  gold! 
Bring  me  words  of  splendid  sound! 
Build  with  them  the  palace  high! 
And  within  it  raise  aloft 
The  Sun's  image  all-transcending^ 
Wrought  of  sunlight  gleaming  bright! 


15S 


FRAGMENTS  FROM  THE  SONG 

TO  THE  SUN 

THE  GODS 

And  the  first-born  man  beheld 

The  sun  rise  in  the  east; 

And  from  within  his  bosom  lo, 

A  stream  of  music  rose. 

An  answer  sweet  to  the  sun's  light, 

A  music  stream  of  hymns, 

Countless  words  and  countless  praises 

To  the  fountain  of  the  day ! 

And  —  O  miracle!  —  all  hymns 

And  countless  words  and  praises 

Spread  in  waves  from  end  to  end! 

And  taking  flesh  in  time. 

They  became  great  gods  of  light 

And  signs  of  harmony! 


157 


158  KOSTES  PALAMAS 


MY  GOD 


Wounded  with  the  mighty  love 

Of  my  mistress  Life, 

I  wander  on,  her  loyal  herald 

And  her  worshipper. 

To  thy  mystic  suppers  call 

Me  not,  0  Galilean, 

Prophet  of  the  misty  dream, 

Denier  of  things  that  are! 

Crowned  with  lotus,  show  me  not 

Nirvana's  senseless  bliss! 

Yet,  do  thou,  O  Sun,  shine  forth 

About,  within,  above; 

Shine  upon  my  love  and  make 

A  world  of  the  Earth  planet! 

Shine  life-giving  with  thy  light, 

O  my  Sun  and  God! 


FROM  THE  SONG  TO  THE  SUN  159 

HELEN 

.  .  .  She  gave  not  me,  but  made  a  breathing  image 
Of  the  light  air  of  heaven  and  gave  that 
To  royal  Priam's  son!    And  yet  he  thought 
That  he  had  me  —  a  vain  imagining!  .  .  . 

Euripides,  Helen,  33-36. 

Helen  am  I!     In  the  Sun's  fountain 

Have  I  taken  birth! 

I  am  the  Sun-god's  golden  dream, 

And  unto  him  I  go! 

Not  about  me,  but  about 

Mine  image,  which  the  gods 

Had  wrought,  life's  perfect  counterfeit, 

Recklessly  gods  and  heroes 

Plunged  into  war  and  war's  destruction! 

For  the  Cimmerian 

Enchanter  carried  far  away 

As  his  own  mate  my  shade 

Thrice-beautiful,  that  rose  to  life 

From  Night's  embrace  in  an 

Enchanted  land  and  hour.     I  am 

The  bride  intangible. 

Inviolable,  beyond  all  reach! 

Helen  am  I! 


160  KOSTES  PALAMAS 


THE  LYRE 


I  KNOW  a  lyre  that  is  as  priceless 

As  a  sacred  amulet; 

A  spirit  with  a  master  hand 

Made  it  and  cast  it  here. 

No  mortal  hand  of  skill  or  love 

Or  power  rouses  it, 

Nor  makes  it  answer  to  the  touch 

With  sound  or  voice  or  sigh. 

Even  the  wise  and  beautiful. 

The  north  wind  and  the  breeze 

Cannot  awaken  the  sweet  lyre! 

Only  the  Sun-god's  beams. 

They  with  one  kiss  alone  can  make 

Its  sun-enamored  strings 

Sing  Siren-like! 


FROM  THE  SONG  TO  THE  SUN  161 

GIANTS'  SHADOWS 

Like  moanings  of  the  sea,  I  hear 

Voices  ascend  from  darkness: 

Are  they  the  giants'  shadows  moving  ? 

—  Shadow,  who  art  thou  ?     Speak ! 

—  I  am  the  Telamonian ! 
And  see,  within  me  I 

Close  the  whole  sun  that  never  sets 

Though  Hades  yawn  about; 

Weep  not  for  me! 

—  And  thou  beside  him? 

—  The  heart  of  Teutons'  land 
Brought  me  to  life.     A  maker,  I, 
Maker  sublime  of  worlds 
Olympian,  have  even  here 

In  Tartarus'  dark  realm 

One  longing  for  my  heart,  one  thirst: 

I  long  and  thirst  for  light! 


162  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

THE  HOLY  VIRGIN  IN  HELL 

The  chariot  moves,  drawn  by  wings 
Of  Cherub  Spirits,  on! 
In  Hell,  the  Holy  Virgin  gleams! 
"  Mercy,  O  sunlike  Lady!  " 
The  damned  cry  and  beat  their  breasts 
Amidst  the  flames  that  burn. 
Fed  by  the  great  abyss.     Among  them, 
A  sudden  proud  complaint 
Is  heard:     "  A  worshipper  was  I 
Of  the  great  Sun;  was  this 
A  cause  for  night  to  fetter  me  ? 
Tell  me,  O  sunlike  Lady ! 
The  light  of  life  I  sucked,  did  that 
Become  the  Hell's  embrace 
And  Satan's  kiss  for  me  ?  " 


FROM  THE  SONG  TO  THE  SUN  163 

SUNRISE 

The  white  swans  gently  drag  their  boats 

Of  ivory;  bright  beams 

Glimmer  as  through  a  veil  of  agate; 

And  coral-wTought,  the  crowns 

Shine  on  fair  locks  like  amber  gleaming. 

A  pearl  lake  dreamlike  lives 

With  water  lilies  studded. 

Azure-browed  Fairies  revelUng 

Quaff  wine  of  honey  gold; 

And  mighty  riders  steal  away 

With  brides  thrice-beautiful. 

But  thou,  an  archer  mightier, 

Risest  unmaking  all 

The  multitudes  of  binding  charms 

With  the  one  charm  of  light, 

O  God  of  wing-sped  chariot! 


164  KOSTES  PALAMAS 


DOUBLE  SONG 


The  lithesome  maiden  stood  thrice-fair, 

Her  eyes  like  gems  agleam ! 

"  I  pour  the  crimson  wine  of  love 

In  empty  cups  of  gold!  " 

—  "  Maiden,  I  am  the  nestless  bird; 

Flowery  boughs  bar  not 

My  way.     Bound  for  bright  suns  magnetic, 

I  sail  through  darkness  blind. 

Seer  am  I  and  worshipper 

Of  all  that  is  and  lives! 

I  am  the  harp  of  thousand  strings 

Of  countless  sounds!  " 

—  "Thou  blind! 

Seest  thou  not  within  mine  eyes 

The  magnetism  and  glory 

Of  aU  the  suns  ?  " 


FROM  THE  SONG  TO  THE  SUN  165 

THE  SUN-BORN 

On  great  Olympus,  a  feast  of  joy ! 

The  gods  divide  the  earth; 

The  light-bestower  is  away; 

Forgotten  he  will  be. 

And  the  light-giver  came  and  nodded 

To  the  blue  sea;  and  lo, 

The  sea  was  rent  with  fruitful  heave! 

And  the  Sun's  island  rose 

With  a  thousand  beauties  crowned; 

And  makers  lived  upon  the  island, 

Beings  above  all  men; 

And  they  made  statues  masterful, 

All  beautiful  hke  gods 

And  hving  as  immortals  live! 


166  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

ON  THE  HEIGHTS  OF  PARADISE 

The  little  house  I  built  for  thee 

To  dwell  therein,  enchanter, 

Even  that  —  to  my  care-bent  grief  — 

Becomes  a  heavy  grave. 

Yet,  little  soul  of  lily  whiteness, 

Spare  me  thy  sad  complaint; 

For  on  the  heights  of  paradise, 

0 

I  wander  longing  and 

I  search.     I  search  and  wait  for  it. 

And  on  the  crossroads  wide 

Of  the  suns,  I  shall  find  a  house 

Snow-white  that  even  eagles 

High-flying  never  face;  a  house 

That  Visions  great  alone 

May  touch.     Therein  I  shall  enthrone  thee! 


FROM  THE  SONG  TO  THE  SUN  167 

THE  STRANGER 

When  first  the  vaulting  palm-leaves  spread 

Their  shelter  over  thee, 

The  golden  Cyclads  danced  about 

With  merry  shouts  and  laughter. 

But  now,  —  O  nakedness  of  plains 

And  mountains!     Withering 

Of  green  leaves  everywhere!     Thorns  suck 

The  green  blood  of  the  vines! 

No  April  looked  on  thee  again; 

And  on  the  desert  land, 

The  wars  of  elements  and  beasts 

Rage  furious.     But  thee 

The  snow-white  swans  bring  back  no  more; 

Thou  art  for  ever  guest 

At  the  Hyperboreans'  feast. 


168  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

AN  ORPHIC  HYMN 

Far  from  the  footpaths  of  the  thoughtless. 

An  Orphic  priest  and  bard, 

I  bring  to  hght  again  a  hymn 

Of  a  thrice-ancient  cult. 

For  until  now  my  thought  flowed  on, 

A  river  under  earth. 

Amidst  men's  tumult  my  lyre's  rhythm, 

A  sudden  wonder  rose. 

At  night  I  start,  at  night  I  climb 

The  mountain  difficult; 

I  wish  alone  and  first  to  greet 

Light  Apollonian 

While  among  mortal  men  below 

Darkness  and  sleep  shall  reign. 


FROM  THE  SONG   TO  THE  SUN  169 

THE  POET 

Sun  made  the  lily  white, 

The  glory  of  the  flowery  earth; 

Sun  made  the  swan,  which  is 

The  lily  of  a  life  white- winged; 

The  eagle,  whom  he  lures 

Spell-bound  to  his  great  heights, 

And  the  gold  shimmer  of  the  moon, 

The  lovers'  loving  comrade. 

And  then  he  dreamed  a  creature  fuller 

Of  lilies,  eagles,  swans,  and  shimmers, 

And  made  the  poet.     He 

Alone  beholds  thee  face  to  face, 

O  God;  and  he  alone. 

Reaching  into  thy  heart,  reveals 

To  us  thy  mysteries. 


170  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

KRISHNA'S  WORDS 

I  AM  the  light  within  the  sun, 

The  flush  within  the  fire; 

And  on  the  page  of  the  sacred  book, 

I  am  the  mystic  word. 

The  men  of  mighty  deeds  call  me 

Glory;  the  wise  men,  wisdom. 

Of  things  existing  and  of  truth, 

I  am  the  fountain  head! 

I  am  the  life  of  all  that  is! 

Beings  and  pearls  are  bound 

Together  with  one  thread;  and  that, 

Is  I!     Maya  alone. 

The  sorceress,  behind  me  follows 

Beguiling  me.     But  I 

Battle  with  her  to  victory  I 


FROM  THE  SONG  TO  THE  SUN  171 

THE  TOWER  OF  THE  SUN 

Away  beyond  the  world's  far  edge, 

And  where  the  heavens  end, 

The  tower  of  the  sun  shines  bright 

Dazzling  the  mortal's  mind. 

Once  mighty  princes,  sons  of  kings, 

Went  on  a  chase  most  wonderful, 

And  stopped  at  the  Sun's  tower. 

And  the  Sun  came,  the  dragon  star. 

The  giant  merciless! 

Woe  unto  him  who  lingers  there 

By  the  far  heavens'  end! 

And  the  Sun  came;  and  with  his  spell, 

He  turned  them  into  stones, 

The  princely  hunters,  sons  of  kings! 

No  azure  field,  no  streak  of  green, 
No  shadow,  and  no  breath! 
Only  a  death  of  light  and  lightning 
Glitters  about  and  gleams! 
And  in  the  tower,  in  and  out. 


172  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

As  if  by  masters  set, 

A  world  of  statues  voiceless  stand, 

The  offsprings  of  great  kings. 

And  from  their  deep  and  smothered  eyes. 

Something  like  living  glance 

Struggles  to  peep  through  its  stone  veil! 

It  seems  the  stone-bound  princes 

Wait  for  a  sail,  long  lingering. 

From  the  world's  shores  away. 

And  thou,  O  princess  beautiful, 

Camest  from  far  away, 

A  fair  Redeemer!     The  Sun's  tower 

Gleamed  forth  as  if  the  light 

Of  a  new  Dawn  embraced  its  walls. 

Thou  knowest  where  Life's  Fountain 

Flows,  and  thou  searchest  silently, 

With  steps  that  slowly  move 

Towards  the  fountain  tower-guarded  where 

Life's  water  flows.     And  lo, 

Taming  the  watchful  dragon's  fangs. 

Thou  drawest  from  the  fountain 


FROM  THE  SONG  TO  THE  SUN  173 

Where  the  sweet  water  of  Life  flows  on; 

And  sprinkling  them  with  it, 

Thou  wakest  up  the  sons  of  kings! 

And  on  thy  homeward  trail, 

Thou  shinest  with  transcending  gleam, 

Like  a  far  greater  Sun ! 


174  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

A  MOURNING  SONG 

No!     Death  cannot  have  taken  thee! 

In  the  sweet  hour  of  love, 

The  Sun-god  lifted  thee  away, 

O  child  of  sunlike  beauty! 

He  took  thee  to  his  palaces 

To  fill  thee  with  his  love, 

A  love  that  lives  in  light  and  is 

An  endless  glittering! 

Flowers  with  light-born  fragrances 

And  fruits  as  sweet  as  light, 

The  Sun  will  pluck  for  thee;  and  he 

Will  bathe  thee  in  a  stream 

Flooded  with  light.     And  clad 

In  a  white  robe  of  light,  my  child. 

Thou  wilt  come  back  to  me, 

Riding  on  a  star-crowned  deer! 


FROM  THE  SONG  TO  THE  SUN  175 

PRAYER  OF  THE  FIRST-BORN  MEN 

Each  time  the  dawn  reveals  thy  face, 

Each  time  the  darkness  hides  thee, 

Before  the  eyes  of  all  the  world. 

In  crimson  red  thou  shinest, 

Father  and  God  blood-revelling! 

A  bath  in  blood  immortalizes 

Thine  unf  athomed  beauty ! 

Blood  feeds  and  veils  thee,  Father 

And  God  blood-revelling! 

To  quench  thy  thirst,  we  offer  thee 

Our  only  children's  lives; 

And  if  their  blood  fills  not  thy  thirst. 

We  spread  for  thee  a  sea 

Of  all  the  blood  of  our  own  heart! 


176  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

THOUGHT  OF  THE  LAST-BORN  MEN 

Where  temples  sounded  with  hosannas, 

Stones  lie  dumb  in  crumbling  ruins; 

And  forgetfulness  has  swept 

Dreams  and  phantoms  once  called  gods. 

Even  you  are  gone,  O  myths, 

Golden  makers  of  the  thought, 

Gone  beyond  return ! 

In  the  empty  Infinite, 

Blind  laws  drive  in  multitudes 

Flaming  worlds  of  endless  depths. 

And  yet  neither  gold-haired  Phoebus, 

Who  is  dead,  nor  yet  the  sun. 

Who  now  lives  a  world-abyss, 

None,  God  or  law,  upon  this  earth 

Could  save  us  or  will  ever  save 

Either  from  the  claws  of  love 

Or  from  the  teeth  of  death! 


FROM  THE  SONG  TO  THE  SUN  177 

MOLOCH 

Barbarians  defile  the  land 

Where  the  Greek  race  was  born ! 

And  where  the  loves  flew  garlanded, 

Night-bats  roam  to  and  fro! 

And  in  our  night,  as  a  glowworm. 

The  ancients'  memory 

Sends  forth  its  greenish  counterfeit 

Of  light!     It  is  a  night 

That  our  undying  sun  cannot 

Dispel  with  its  bright  beams ! 

From  depths  and  heights,  barbarians 

Suck  soul  and  fatherland! 

And  when  with  a  low  moan  thrice-deep, 

We  ask  thee,  Grecian  God, 

"  Art  thou  the  golden-haired  Apollo  ?  ", 

Grimly  thou  answerest, 

"Moloch,  ami!" 


178  KOSTES  PALAIVIAS 

ALL  THE  STARS 

When  I  first  looked  with  wonderment 

On  thee,  O  Muse  of  Light, 

The  morning  star  upon  thy  brow 

Shone  with  bright  glittering. 

And  I  said:     "  More  of  light  I  need!  " 

And  as  I  looked  again 

On  thee,  O  Muse  of  Light,  the  moon 

Shone  brightly  on  thy  brow. 

And  "  More!  "     I  said  and  looked  again: 

And  saw  the  sun  agleam! 

But  still  insatiate  I  am. 

And  wait  to  look  on  thee 

When  on  thy  brow,  O  Muse  of  Light, 

The  star-spun  sky  shall  shine! 


FROM  THE  SONG  TO  THE  SUN  179 

ARROWS 

Thou  earnest,  Phoebus,  lower  down 

From  pure  Olympus'  heights 

Towards  the  land  where  idle  men 

And  sluggards  worthless  dwell; 

And  on  thy  lyre  thou  playedst.  Fountain 

Of  flowing  harmonies! 

The  deaf  made  answer  with  their  sneers! 

The  blind,  with  scornful  laughter! 

And  then  to  rid  the  world  of  filth 

And  purify  the  air. 

Thou  threwest  away  thine  angry  lyre; 

And  turning  archer,  thou, 

With  fiery  arrows  smotest  all 

The  flocks  of  fools  away ! 


VERSES  OF  A  FAMILIAR  TUNE 

1900 


THE  BEGINNING 

A  WEDDING  guest,  I  travel  far  abroad! 

The  bride,  thrice  beautiful;  the  groom,  a  wizard; 

And  I  ride  swiftly  to  the  wedding  feast. 

The  land  is  far,  and  I  must  travel  on; 

An  endless  path  before  me  leads  away; 

But  till  I  reach  the  end,  I  check  the  ardor 

Of  my  swift-footed  stallion  silver-shod, 

And  wisely  shorten  my  way's  weary  length 

With  sounds  that,  like  sweet  longings,  wake  in  me. 

Old  sounds  familiar,  low-whispering 

Of  women's  beauties  and  of  home-born  shadows. 

Then  flowers  pour  their  fragrances  for  me; 

And  blossoms  with  no  scent  have  their  own  speech, 

The  speech  of  voiceless  eyes  that  open  wide; 

Unconsciously  I  speak  my  words  in  rimes 

That  with  uncommon  measure  echo  forth 

The  flames  that  burn  within  the  heart,  the  kisses 

That  the  waves  squander  on  the  sandy  beach, 

And  the  sweet  birds  that  sing  on  children's  lips! 

18$ 


VERSES  OF  A  FAMILIAR  TUNE 

THE  PARALYTIC  ON  THE  RIVER'S  BANK 

Upon  the  graceless  river  bank  that  spread 
Barren  and  desert,  all  things  drooped  in  sickness; 
And  I,  with  palsy  stricken,  lay  in  pains! 
Vainly  my  hands  shook  feather-like  with  fever; 
Methought  my  feet  were  nailed  upon  the  ground; 
The  river,  wide  and  wild;  and  far  beyond. 
As  far  as  eyes  could  see,  the  other  bank 
Revelled  in  lusty  growth  and  endless  mirth 
With  leafy  slopes  and  forests  glistening ! 
Meadows  unreaped  and  glades  untrod  were  there. 
And  floods  of  green  and  tempests  of  new  blossoms! 
About  the  tree-tops  glittered  crowns  of  light; 
Shadows  thrice-deep  hid  mysteries  divine; 
And  all  descended  bhndly  to  the  bank 
Where  the  wild  river's  anger  held  them  back. 
Seeking,  it  seemed,  a  ford  to  come  across 
To  the  dark  bank  of  wilderness  and  torture ! 

185 


186  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

And  toward  me  all  seemed  to  stretch  their  hands. 
Sending  me  shameless  kisses  as  I  lay 
Parched  by  the  burning  wind  and  worn  with  fever. 
Nearby  a  sun-dried  reed  poured  forth  its  sighs; 
And  farther,  a  small  laurel  stirred  its  leaves: 
The  double  treasure  of  my  wilderness. 

I  wished  to  cut  a  flute  from  the  dry  reed 
And  wished  a  crown  of  laurel;  but  I  lay 
Nailed  down  immovable  as  if  the  rod 
Of  an  enchantress  evil-born  had  touched  me; 
And  within  me,  with  wings  of  impotence. 
My  wounded  mind  fluttered  on  hopelessly! 

And  then  thou  camest  girt  with  working  garb; 

With  girdle  flower-spun,  with  apron  full 

Of  fruits,  didst  thou  bend  over  me.     The  spell 

Thou  didst  dispel  and  gavest  me  to  eat 

And  cleansedst  me  with  myrrh;  and  suddenly, 

A  soul  divine  and  merciful  came  down 

On  the  bank  merciless;  and  in  thine  arms 

Lifting  me  gently,  thou  didst  go  forth 

Amidst  a  moaning  as  of  humming  bees. 


VERSES  OF  A  FAMILIAR  TUNE  187 

Thou  stoodst  on  the  threshold  of  the  peasant  hut, 
The  hut  that  was  earth-built  and  filled  with  grass 
As  if  the  art  of  a  small  bird  had  wrought  it. 

Thou  didst  lay  me  upon  a  bed  at  dusk 

That  I  might  rest;  and  mingled  with  sweet  care 

And  innocence,  thou  didst  lean  by  my  side 

With  body  ripe  and  beautiful.     Wert  thou 

A  lover,  mother,  sister,  or  a  woman  ? 

Thou  didst  lay  on  my  brow  thy  hand  to  lull  me; 

And  in  thy  thoughtful  face,  I  saw  the  gleam 

Of  kindly  Nausica  and  good  Rebecca. 

I  slept  and  woke;  even  my  sorrow's  ogress 

Had  turned  into  a  fairy  sweetly  sad ! 

And  in  my  hands  I  found  both,  laurel  bough 

And  reed !     I  drank  the  fragrant  morning  breath 

Of  pines;  and  taking  up  the  laurel  boughs, 

I  wove  with  master  hand  the  whole  day  long 

All  kinds  of  laurel  crowns  for  thee;  and  then 

I  poured  into  the  unaccustomed  air 

Of  thy  small  hut  a  flute's  soft-flown  complaint. 


188  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

But  from  my  bed,  I  lifted  up  mine  eyes 
To  the  window's  light  and  saw  again,  alas, 
The  desert  river  bank,  and,  far  beyond. 
The  world  that  squandered  diamonds  and  pearls 
And  revelled  in  its  joy  of  green  dew-clad. 
Again  they  nodded  secretly  at  me. 
Stretching  their  hands  and  feigning  love! 
And  even  near  thee,  palsy  struck  I  was, 
The  paralytic  on  the  river  bank! 


VERSES  OF  A  FAMILIAR  TUNE  189 

THE  SIMPLE  SONG 

Thou  earnest  far  away  from  lands  beyond ! 
Thou  wert  not  a  gold  sunlit  cloud  at  sunset 
But  mother  of  a  honeyed  tenderness 
That  until  then  lay  hidden  in  my  mind's 
Tenderest  shrine;  the  golden  seal  of  a 
Young  maiden's  joy  stamped  with  its  touch! 
The  evening  star  thou  wert  not;  but  thou  wert 
The  sister  of  a  simple  love  that  lay 
Hidden  till  then  in  my  heart's  inner  depths. 

Before  me  thou  didst  not  unfold  the  spaces 

Of  the  blue  skies;  not  didst  thou  lift  mine  eyes 

Towards  the  rough-hewn  peak;  nor  didst  thou  open 

To  me  the  way  for  distant  palaces; 

Nor  didst  thou  lead  me  by  a  secret  path 

Untrod.     But  lifting  with  one  hand  the  basket, 

Gently  thou  heldest  with  the  other  mine; 

And  leading  me  to  sit  by  ferns  dew-clad 

And  deep  green  grass  and  snow-white  flowers,  thou 

Badest  me  stoop  and  gather;  and  I  stooped 


190  KOSTES  PALAIVIAS 

And  gathered  all  my  hands  could  reach:  wall-flowers. 

Hyacinths,  violets,  and  daffodils; 

And  found  beside  them  a  May  day  anew. 

Over  their  petals  newly  reaped  and  fresh 
That  made  the  basket  seem  a  cruel  spring, 
I  bent  and  wept  for  their  deaths  swift  and  fair; 
And  lo,  thou  didst  face  them,  a  Life  agleam! 


VERSES  OF  A  FAMILIAR  TUNE  191 

THREE  KISSES 

A  Dream  flew  down  and  stood  before  mine  eyes  — 
Who  knows  from  what  unknown  deep-hidden  nest  ? 
It  took  the  face  of  my  own  secret  love 
And  blew  me  with  its  hands  three  airy  kisses: 

The  first  air-kiss  spread  in  my  breast  the  din 
Of  bitter  and  sweet  life  in  waves  of  air; 
And  the  world's  music  sounded  manifold, 
A  tempest's  roar  and  a  sweet  breath's  caress. 

The  second  air-kiss  whispered  low  to  me 
All  whisperings  that  Silence  stoops  to  sing 
Over  bare  wilderness  and  tombs  and  ruins. 
Songs  that  no  soul  nor  even  wind  can  hear. 

The  third  air-kiss  would  bring  to  me,  it  seemed, 
Secrets  from  somewhere  heard  by  none  before. 
Perhaps,  by  some  bright  star,  two  spirits  white 
Embraced  each  other  as  they  passed  in  thought. 


192  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

ISMENE 

To  N.  G.  Polites,  her  father. 

Where  is  the  little  girl  and  beautiful 
Who  drew  the  milk  of  a  full  life  and  precious  ? 
She  filled  her  home  with  fragrance,  and  away 
She  sailed  to  anchor  in  another  land. 

• 

She  filled  her  home  with  fragrance,  and  on  wings 

Swiftly  she  fled  and  passed  away.     Who  knows 

Why  she  has  left  the  flesh  ?     Perhaps,  she  went 

Among  the  mystic  joys  of  things  unseen 

And  things  intangible  to  be  herself 

Something  new,  something  beyond  compare  or  word. 

And  yet  her  house  is  wrapped  in  spider  webs 

And  longs  for  her.     To  her  warm  nest,  will  she 
Return  ?     Perhaps,  each  time  you  feel,  O  home, 

Within  your  bosom  something  sweet  and  tender 

That  cannot  be  explained,  it  may  be  she; 

W^ho  knows  ?     Then  speak  to  her  and  say :     "  Do  you, 

Too,  long  for  me,  O  soul  without  return  ?  " 


VERSES  OF  A  FAMILIAR  TUNE  193 

THOUGHTS  OF  EARLY  DAWN 

Who  are  you  that  awake  me  in  the  morning  ? 
Not  the  reveille  that  sweetens  with  its  sounds 
The  soldier's  hardy  life.     Nor  can  you  be 
The  chapel  bell  that  slowly  rings  to  prayer. 

*  * 
* 

Your  steps  fall  heavy  on  the  road.     You  bring 
Thought,  light,  and  sound,  my  sacred  Trinity. 
What  if  you  rouse  the  slave  who  goes  to  work  ? 
What  if  you  call  the  prodigal  to  sleep  ? 

*  * 
* 

Not  many  were  the  flowers;  and  few,  the  lilies; 

And  I  did  long  to  reap  the  lily-treasure. 

I  eyed  the  lilies  all,  and  walked  into 

The  garden  rich  to  clasp  them  in  mine  arms. 

*  * 
* 

And  in  the  garden,  all  the  roses  smiled; 

Under  their  veils,  the  violets  bowed  down. 

I  passed  them  by.     The  pansies  looked  erect 

And  scentless,  wrapped  in  thought :  by  them,  I  stopped. 


194  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

Sweet  child,  upon  thy  tomb,  a  rosebud  blossomed; 
The  hand  would  reach  at  it,  but  it  cannot. 
And  on  its  path  the  wind  would  blow  on  it; 
But  ere  he  light,  it  dies  into  a  kiss. 

*  .  * 
* 

Like  church  lights  shine  the  blossoms  in  the  light; 
And  butterflies  are  drunk  with  airy  fragrance; 
Yet  neither  for  fragrance  nor  for  light,  I  come 
Into  the  quiet  garden  as  before. 

*  .  * 
* 

I  come  to  see  the  children  beautiful. 
Running  and  playing,  full  of  beaming  smiles, 
Children  that  make  of  grassy  beds  a  heaven 
And  rise  like  miracles  among  the  flowers. 

*  ,  * 
* 

The  brows  of  righteous  men  pass  slow  before  me. 
Clouds  calm  and  wide,  full  of  refreshing  rain; 
And  from  the  lightless  depths  of  hell,  methinks 
I  hear  breast-beatings  and  dark  blasphemies. 
And  suddenly,  I  mingle  speech  with  rime. 
The  rime  that  above  human  things  and  woes. 


VERSES  OF  A  FAMILIAR  TUNE  195 

Like  the  Platonic  Diotima,  rises 

A  prophetess  upon  a  path  sublime 

Towards  worlds  of  thought  and  earth-transcending  loves. 

*     * 
* 

Whatever  be  thy  substance,  O  bright  gleam, 

Iron  or  stone,  silver  or  wind,  air-cloud 

Or  dream,  my  longing  is  the  same  for  thee! 

Within  me  thought  and  hands  and  art  and  science 

Struggle  to  build  together  the  same  temple. 

Maternal  Rhea  treasures  in  her  breast 

All  marbles:  purple,  green,  and  white.     I  searched 

And  found  them  in  your  care,  Taygetus 

Snake-like,  and  Cyclads  fair,  and  Attica. 

And  now  the  columns  stand  a  forest  speechless 

And  motionless;  and  among  them,  the  rhythms 

And  thoughts  move  in  slow  measures  constantly. 

And  in  their  depths,  light-written  images 

Show  Love  that  leads  and  Soul  that  follows  him. 


*  ,  * 
* 


The  axe  and  hammer  of  the  priest  black-robed 
Struck  down  the  holy  idols  of  the  temples; 


196  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

And  yet  the  soul  of  the  ruins  perished  not! 
It  dimbed  the  heaven's  spaces  as  a  star 
Until  new  sculptured  lilies  came  to  life 
In  master  minds,  the  gardens  of  the  wise. 
Thus  axe  and  hammer  of  the  priest  black-robed 
Broke  not  the  holy  idols  of  the  temples! 

* 
Sweet  child,  upon  thy  tomb  a  rosebud  blossomed; 
Is  it  thy  joy  or  grief  ?     Thy  heart  or  thou  ? 
If  mind,  remember  me!     If  mouth,  speak  forth! 
"  I  am  the  movement  of  the  motionless, 
The  lightning  flushing  from  the  source  of  nothing!  " 

*  * 
* 

Thy  cup  is  foaming  with  its  black  strong  wine; 
Bring  to  our  fountain  thy  white-foaming  cup, 
And  brighten  into  red  thy  black  strong  wine 
With  the  fresh  water  of  our  fountain  here. 

*  * 

* 

I  have  a  thought  of  dew;  a  heart  of  flame! 

The  wine  vat  boils;  the  spring  flows  fresh  and  cool; 

And  I  did  mingle  in  my  chiseled  cup 

The  black  strong  wine  with  the  sweet  water  dew. 


VERSES  OF  A  FAMILIAR  TUNE  197 

A  hundred  years!     A  hundred  years  are  gone 
Of  Grecian  mornings  and  of  Grecian  sunsets! 
Make  them  a  coffin  wide,  O  carpenter, 
And  bury  them,  the  hapless  dead,  in  silence! 

*  ,  * 
* 

A  hundred  dragons  watch  a  queen  black-robed, 
A  widowed  orphan  queen  in  a  lone  castle; 
And  they  dig  up  the  scattered  fragments  of 
An  ancient  and  exhaustless  treasure,  once 
Her  own,  and  bring  them  as  their  gifts  to  her! 
"  I  need  no  fragments!     May  the  hour  be  cursed 
And  you,  dragons,  who  hold  me  prisoner! 
I  dream  of  her,  the  living  perfect  land 
Where  I  was  queen!     While  here,  I  am  a  slave!  " 

* 

Loud-crying  birds  that  fly  toward  the  heights, 
White  swans,  and  swans  that  cut  so  tenderly 
The  silent  waters  of  the  lake  in  thoughts 
Of  silent  sorrow,  tameless  birds  and  weary ! 
O  swans  that  dream  the  conquest  of  the  sun. 
And  swans  that  wait  the  coming  of  deep  sleep ! 


198  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

Within  me  lies  a  far  and  secret  kingdom 
Where  I  can  see  lake-swans  and  winds  like  you! 

*     * 

* 

My  banished  life  has  found  a  home  near  thee; 

And  by  thy  grace,  I  am  thy  priest,  O  Phoebus! 

And  taking  from  thy  bright  divinity, 

I  made  the  sun-born  maiden  to  thy  glory ! 

I  lifted  to  thine  image  my  loud  praises. 

And  lo,  bells  hoarse  and  tuneless  answered  them. 

Yet  what  of  it  ?     Thine  endless  praise  I  am, 

And  paeans  follow  on  my  dithyrambs ! 


VERSES  OF  A  FAMILIAR  TUNE  199 

TO  A  MAIDEN  WHO  DIED 

0  LITTLE  life,  quenched  by  the  blow  of  death 
Amidst  the  tender  dreams  of  rosy  dawn, 

1  cannot  lift  thee  into  deathlessness 
Upon  the  chiseled  glitter  of  the  marble! 

I  am  a  humble  bard;  and  thou,  a  music 
Silenced,  whose  strains  my  memory  cannot 
Recall.     Yet  with  a  deeper  bond  my  soul 
Thou  bindest,  O  breath  unpainted  and  unsung. 

Like  a  far  dawn,  thou  smiledst  in  my  mind, 
A  dawn  most  sweet  and  shy  and  fleeting.     Then 
One  day,  over  my  child's  pure  head  thou  bentest 
With  face  abloom  with  smiles  and  fond  caresses. 

And  something  amber-like  remained  in  me 

From  thee,  though  thou  didst  pass;  and  in  the  evening 

Which  in  me  rises  slowly,  the  dream  fairy 

Of  the  azure  tales  looks  with  thy  face  on  me. 


200  KOSTES  PALAMAS 


TO  THE  SINNER 


Sinner,  thy  mother  gave  thee  not  the  milk 
That  makes  the  cheek  a  rose,  the  man  a  castle ! 
Each  nursing  was  a  sin;  each  drop,  a  sickness! 
Within  thee,  ancient  lives  revive  thrice- wretched. 

Vices  of  ancestors  unknown  and  instincts 
Of  beastly  fathers,  ever  travelling, 
Before  they  rose  to  light,  thus  to  become 
Like  smiles  and  fields  of  azure  blue,  came  down 
To  dwell  in  thee,  a  people  of  tormentors! 

And  one  day,  sinner,  thine  own  mother  gave 
To  thee  the  wonder-working  holy  image 
To  carry  it  to  the  sacred  festival 
Of  the  illumined  church  with  open  gates 
Calling  upon  its  throngs  of  worshippers. 

And  on  thy  way,  the  luring  harlot  watched 

And  stripped  thee  of  thy  mind;  and  as  thy  hands 

Struggled  to  clasp  her,  down  the  image  fell. 
The  sacred  image,  in  the  ditch's  filth! 


VERSES  OF  A  FAMILIAR  TUNE  201 

And  forthwith  even  there,  the  plague  began 
To  visit  thee !     And  crumbling  down,  thou  didst 
Begin  to  groan  and  tremble  nearer  death 
Than  the  dead  corpse  on  which  the  ravens  feed! 
And  Satan  crouching  upon  thee  rejoices! 

And  seeing  it,  thou  strugglest  painfully, 
Stretchest  thy  hands  towards  the  ditch's  filth, 
And  darest  a  prayer  to  the  saint  defiled, 
Though  still  enflamed  by  thirst  for  the  vile  kiss ! 


202  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

A  TALK  WITH  THE  FLOWERS 

Upon  my  passing,  slow  or  swift,  by  you 

I  lingered  not,  nor  stooped  to  pluck  you,  flowers! 

I  saw  you  as  a  vision  skyward  roaming, 

And  I  adored  you  just  as  thought  and  sky! 

My  hand  reached  not  to  touch  you  sinfully, 

My  flowers !     For  what  is  most  beautiful 

Is  also  most  remote.     You  were  for  me 

The  music  that  the  wind  brings  on  its  wings 

In  perfect  strains  directly  to  the  heart. 

I  wished  your  dazzling  could  remain  as  that 

Of  castles  barred  and  inaccessible. 

From  far  thy  fragrance  came  to  me,  0  jasmine; 

And  thy  gleam,  lily,  like  the  eyes'  light-kisses! 

But  since  my  darling  child  lay  down  to  sleep 
The  bitter  sleep  that  knows  no  wakening, 
I  am  the  cruel  reaper  always  bending 
Above  you,  gathering  you  one  by  one, 
And  ever  binding  you  in  royal  garlands. 
And  ever  weaving  you  into  rich  robes 


VERSES  OF  A  FAMILIAR  TUNE  203 

For  him!    I  wish  to  play  new  plays  with  him, 
And  spread  you  over  him  as  mine  embrace! 
I  wish  to  raise  him  as  a  flower  garden 
Breathing  into  his  grave  the  flower  soul 
Of  an  immortal  April.     Oh,  I  wish  .  .  . 
Weak  though  I  am,  would  all  earth's  verdancy 
Were  a  long  dream  and  kiss  for  my  beloved ! 
Would  that  whatever  is  beyond  man's  touch, 
Air-born,  transcending  earth,  or  fleeting,  all 
That  has  a  sunbeam  as  its  heart,  a  breeze  as  body. 
Fair  vision,  thought,  or  heaven  —  would  that  I 
Could  close  them  into  forms  and  scatter  them 
Upon  his  flower-clad  grave  with  you,  sweet  flowers! 

In  my  paternal  love,  pure  white,  the  flames 
Of  passion  burn;  and  then,  the  yellow  languor 
Of  a  sick  man!     Thus  did  I  love  him,  flowers! 
His  father  though  they  called  me,  I  was  his  lover! 

O  flowers,  did  you  know  it  ?     Was  your  life. 
So  pure  and  little,  ever  touched  by  such 
A  woe  ?     Does  not  a  quenchless  longing  stir  you 
As  you  grow  on  the  selfsame  flower  bough  ? 


204  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

The  body  of  my  child,  sent  up  from  depths 

Unfathomed  of  a  secret  Fate  unhoped, 

Was  an  epiphany  of  the  fair  bride, 

The  bride  undreamable,  intangible 

Of  a  god's  dream!     Was  he  of  mine  own  blood  ? 

I  never  thought  whether  he  was  to  live. 

Grow,  or  advance  in  thought  and  deed;  I  was 

Drunk  with  his  luring  wine,  his  eyes,  his  face. 

His  gait!     The  breath  of  blest  Makaria 

Had  blown  on  him!     The  stranger's  song  revolved 

Before  my  mind:     "  Thou  little  line  so  fine. 

Written  with  roses,  line  that  wert  his  mouth. 

How  dost  thou  give  birth  to  that  mighty  trembling  ?  "  * 

How  often  when  he  turned  away  his  lips 
So  beautiful  in  careless  weariness 
From  mine  embrace,  I  felt  the  torturings 
Of  a  disease  and  drank  the  bitter  draughts 

^  The  poet  had  in  mind  the  following  lines  of  Sully  Prudhomme  from  his 
Stances  et  Pohmes,  L'  4me : 

Tous  les  corps  o£Frent  des  contours, 
Mais  d'  ou  vienne  la  forme  qui  touche? 
Comment  faistu  les  grands  amours. 
Petite  ligne  de  la  bouche? 


VERSES  OF  A  FAMILIAR  TUNE  205 

Of  jealousy !     How  often,  when  he  lay 
Reclining  on  mine  arms  and  breathing  gently, 
I  thought  I  held  the  graspless  image  of 
Beauty  light-born,  and  said :     "  Wliat  is  there  more 
For  me  to  hope  ?  "     O  flowers,  did  you  know  it  ? 
Can  you,  too,  mingle  your  little  hidden  hearts 
Fed  with  sweet  honey,  the  pure  frankincense 
Of  a  thrice-blue  and  earth-transcending  worship, 
With  love's  uneasy  little  tremblings  ? 

Oh, 

The  bitterest  and  saddest  blows,  the  blows 
That  know  no  healing  on  this  earth  of  ours. 
Come  from  our  dearest!     Thus  he  fled  and  left  me 
A  bitterness  beyond  all  sorrow's  pangs, 
O  little  flowers,  flowers  of  dark  death! 


206  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

TO  MY  WIFE 

Here  bloomed  our  home;   the  yomig  plant  verdant 

blossomed 
In  the  cool  shade  of  the  fresh  green  grape-vine; 
And  here  the  mystic  moon,  entwined  in  green, 
Descended  like  a  first-seen  ghost  on  us. 

Here  the  two  fountains  of  desire  refreshed 

Our  years:  the  one,  before  our  eyes;  the  others. 

In  dreams.    The  fair  Muse  silenced  here  care's  crickets 

And  stirred  the  sacred  frenzy  of  the  lyre. 

Here  we  enjoyed  our  first-born's  flutterings; 

And  here  the  little  gleaming  face  and  round. 

Our  second  fruit,  maddened  us  with  pure  joy  I 

As  the  unhoped  return  of  a  longed  friend. 

Here  we  received  one  day  into  our  bosom 

The  transitory  child  beyond  compare, 

The  third  one,  who  transformed  the  worldly  air 

About  us  into  flowing  wine  for  gods, 

An  offering  imto  the  gleaming  light 

Of  high  Olympus,  dwelling  of  the  blessed ! 


VERSES  OF  A  FAMILIAR  TUNE  207 

Here  was  thy  youth,  even  when  care  oppressed  thee, 
A  fair  Venetian  painting,  the  blithe  work 
Of  a  Ught-beaming  Titian,  that  revealed 
Pure  shining  joy  in  thy  lithe  body's  form. 

Here  bloomed  our  home;    the  young  plant  verdant 

blossomed. 
Hidden  in  the  cool  shade  of  the  green  vine. 
Now,  nothing  remains.     Only  the  mystic  moon 
Weeps  in  a  palace  voiceless,  wide,  and  gloomy! 

The  life  that  died  here  wished  for  April  as 
Grave-digger,  and  a  flower-bed  as  grave. 
Oh,  who  had  cursed  it  ?     Nothing  but  a  tomb 
Was  found  for  it!    A  tomb  unfit  and  graceless! 


208  KOSTES  PALAIMAS 

THE  ANSWER 

1  AKE  me  and  hear  me,  Hamadryads  fair. 
And  Aegipans,  Wood-Nymphs,  and  shepherd  gods! 
The  bridal  beds  are  set!     The  forest  glades. 
In  flurry!     The  Flower  Festival  has  come! 
The  bacchic  revelry  bursts  forth  in  glow 

And  frenzy !     Where  is  nature  and  where  is 
Its  end  ?     I  know  not  whether  I  am  myself; 
Great  Pan,  it  seems,  dwells  in  my  bosom  here. 

O  wonder!     I  do  live  the  holy  life 
And  wild  of  purest  nature's  elements! 

0  God  of  the  golden  crown,  the  three  fair  Graces 
And  the  Nine  Sisters  of  the  Song  gave  me 

The  gift  of  tranquil  visions  beautiful! 

1  filled  me  with  the  foam-begotten  beauty 
Of  all !     I  hear  the  nightingales'  sweet  song 
In  answer  to  the  song  of  Sophocles! 

The  woes  of  Aeschylus  resound  prophetic. 
Ocean-born!     Face  to  face  with  me,  as  swift 
As  glance,  green-clad  Atlantides  rise  forth 
From  the  abyss  and  sink  in  it  again. 


VERSES  OF  A  FAMILIAR  TUNE  209 

Phoenicians  battling  with  the  sea  brought  me 
From  far  away ;  I  am  the  reveller 
World- wandering !     Arts,  talks,  and  images 
Are  bristling  in  the  air!     Take  me,  O  Nymphs 
Into  your  bosom !     Satyrs,  hear  my  words ! 

Yet  Satyrs,  Centaurs,  Hamadryad  Nymphs, 
And  golden-spoken  Hellades  at  once 
Made  answer  to  my  pleading  with  one  voice 
From  cities,  mountains,  forests,  cliffs,  and  plains: 

"  Gods'  wine  is  not  for  thee,  O  reveller! " 

And  the  lithe  Tanagraean  maiden  spoke 
With  awe-inspiring  prophetess  Cassandra, 
Ivy-crowned  Maenads,  Gods  Olympian, 
And  the  song-nourished  Hellades;  they  spoke 
From  the  far  cave  of  fair  Calypso  to 
The  wisdom-haunted  Alexandria : 

*'  Silence!     Pale  monk  and  idle  chatterer! 
Silence!     Turn  back  to  thy  lone  cloister  cell." 


210  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

And  the  Pindaric  heroes  laugh  in  scorn 
With  the  white  goddesses  of  marble  wrought 
By  Scopas'  hand;  laugh,  and  their  laughter-peals 
Are  echoed  loud  and  deep  from  far  away ! 


VERSES  OF  A  FAMILIAR  TUNE  211 

THOUGHT 

More  than  the  godhke  gleams  of  sculptured  stone, 
More  than  the  golden  rhythms  the  poet  weaves, 
Who  knows  if  a  good  act  unknown,  some  wound's 
Balsam,  shines  not  with  brighter  lasting  beams  ? 

Who  knows  if  for  some  god's  unfailing  ear, 
The  dogged  sin  and  filthy  vice  are  not 
A  thrice-wise  and  tempestuous  harmony 
Of  melodies  sung  by  Virtue's  lips  serene  ? 

Bright  shine  the  temples  of  Fair  Art;  bright  shine 

The  rainbows  heavenly  of  Thought;  and  bright, 

The  chariots  of  warriors  triumphant! 

Yet  in  the  temple  of  the  Universe, 

Can  they  be  costlier  than  the  mute  Thought 

And  Glory  of  the  flower,  at  whose  birth 

The  dawn  rejoices  and  whose  early  death 

The  saddened  evening  silently  laments  ? 

The  thoughtful  sage  high-rising  smites  the  gates 
Of  the  Infinite  and  questions  every  Sphinx; 


212  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

Yet  who  knows  if  the  soldier  with  no  will. 
Obeying  blindly,  is  not  nearer  Truth  ? 

O  struggle  vast!     Who  knows  what  power  measures 
The  measureless  and  creates  the  great  ? 

Is  it  the  matchless  thought  of  the  endowed, 

Or  the  dim  soul  of  multitudes  that  bursts, 

Thoughtless  of  reason,  into  life  ?     Who  knows  ? 

The  holy  man  lifts  up  his  hand  to  bless 

With  readiness;  yet  who  needs  more  such  blessing  ? 

Is  it  the  free-born  bird  that  makes  its  nest 

Wherever  its  strong  wings  would  waft  it,  or 

The  flowery  plant  bound  by  a  bit  of  earth  ? 

Which  is  the  light  of  Truth  ?     Is  it  the  Law 
That  is  all  eyes  or  is  it  some  blind  love  ? 
What  leads  us  there  ?     The  hidden  path  where  bent 
And  trembling  we  seek  our  way,  or  the  wide  road 
That  makes  us  fly  with  winged  confidence  ? 

O  Thought,  thou  dream-crowned  maiden,  ever  wrestling 
With  a  blood-filled,  swift  woman  masculine. 
Whose  bosom,  thine  or  hers,  is  doomed  to  yield 


VERSES  OF  A  FAMILIAR  TUNE  213 

The  destined  milk  to  nourish  and  to  heal 
Our  sickened  life  with  health  Olympian  ? 

O  Thought,  thou  angel,  ever  wrestling  on 
With  a  strong  giant  flinging  his  hundred  hands 
About  thy  neck  to  strangle  thee,  wilt  thou 
Battle  with  sword  or  lily  ?     Oh,  the  world 
Will  crumble  ere  thy  struggle  finds  an  end  ! 


214  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

THE  SINNER 

O  ELA.PLESS  one,  when  thou  wert  born,  there  came 

The  Fate  thrice-blessed  and  clasped  thee  in  her  arms 

To  bless  thee  with  a  hero's  mighty  deeds 

And  wrap  thee  in  the  purple  of  a  king. 

The  Fate  whose  blessings  teem  with  light  and  might. 

Yet  there,  the  other  Fate,  the  bitch  of  ruin 
Unspoken  and  of  voiceless  death,  kept  watch; 
And  she  led  thee  away  from  the  blue  shore 
With  lihes  sown,  to  the  salt  marsh  of  terror 
And  the  sheer  precipice  of  fearful  trembling! 

Nor  could  thy  baby  hands  grasp  more  than  this, 
A  cheerless  tatter  from  the  sacred  veil 
Of  thy  good  mother  Fate,  the  veil  embroidered 
With  the  star-spangled  sky  by  master  hand! 

O  hapless  One,  while  virgin  joy  bathes  thee 
Abundant  and  thy  tears  are  yet  a  baby's. 
Something  within  thee  groans,  the  muffled  madness 
Of  fettered  murderers,  the  madness  of 


VERSES  OF  A  FAMILIAR  TUNE  215 

Lone  cells.    And  while  thou  showest  the  calm  life 

Of  tame  things  and  of  love  in  thy  still  nook. 

Thou  breedest  fettered  wraths  and  bridled  hatreds. 

Should  they  burst  forth,  ruin  and  wilderness 

Would  reign. 

O  hapless  One,  the  greenest  spots 

Even  of  thy  existence  are  but  full 

Of  pitfalls  opened  wide  and  yawning  void ! 

No  dawning  was  thy  lot;  even  those  boughs 

Young  of  thine  early  years  were  parched  with  drought! 

Whatever  white  thou  touchedst  was  defiled! 

And  thine  old  age,  if  thou  couldst  bare  thy  youth, 

Would  shriek  with  fear  and  fly  from  thy  youth's  face! 

A  sneering  power  or  a  grace  divine 

Mercilessly  nailed  down  thy  hands  and  will, 

O  cowardly,  decrepit,  idle  man. 

Infirm  and  hapless,  starless  night  enclosed 

In  a  weak  child !     Death  will  not  come  to  thee 

As  to  the  toiling  laborer  who  toils 

The  whole  day  long,  and  towards  evening,  sleep. 

Even  before  he  lies  in  bed  to  rest. 

Creeps  sweetly  upon  him  and  seals  his  eyes. 


216  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

Thy  death  shall  be  laden  with  graspless  horror 
Such  as  one  feels  who  sinned  in  secrecy 
And  dreads  each  hour  detection  of  his  sin, 
Trial,  death  sentence,  and  the  hangman's  rope. 

O  hapless  One,  would  that  in  thy  death  struggle 

Her  bosom  might  still  shine  before  thine  eyes. 

The  good  Fate's  breast,  who  blessed  thy  birth  with 

goodness. 
The  Fate  whose  blessings  teem  with  light  and  might! 
Would  that  thou  couldst  show  her  the  humble  shred 
Torn  from  the  star-wrought  sacred  veil  of  hers 
And  tell  her:     "  See,  in  the  deep  darkness  smiles 
Something,  a  dawn  on  which  I  still  hold  fast!  " 

O  hapless  One!     Would  that  the  mighty  heroes 
And  royal  purples  and  the  blessings  full 
Of  light  and  might  and  all  thou  knewest  not 
In  thy  dark  empty  life  could  shine  upon 
Thy  passing  as  the  lights  of  distant  stars! 


VERSES  OF  A  FAMILIAR  TUNE  217 

THE  END 

A  WEDDING  guest,  I  travel  far  abroad! 

The  bride,  thrice-beautiful;  the  groom,  a  wizard; 

And  I  ride  swiftly  to  the  wedding  feast. 

The  land  is  far,  and  I  must  travel  on; 

An  endless  path  before  me  leads  away. 

And  the  far  land  a  vision  was !     The  steed, 

A  smoke!     The  wedding,  angels'  shadows  fleet! 

While  I,  —  O  cruel  wakening !  —  lie  down 

For  ever  palsy-stricken  and  bed-ridden! 

And  only  you,  old  tunes  familiar, 

I  hold.     I  hold  you  as  a  dying  darling  child, 

Languid  and  glowing  with  the  fever's  heat. 

Holds  on  to  his  dear  plaything,  with  white  wings 

New-grown  for  his  long  journey,  even  I, 

The  child  unskilled,  dream-roaming,  stript  of  will! 

Old  tunes  familiar,  waft  me  upon 
Your  shining  wings  for  healing  or  for  death 
To  the  cool  shadow  of  the  pure-white  home 
And  lay  me  gently  on  a  loving  bosom. 


THE  PALM  TREE 

TO   DOSINES,   WHO   HEARD   IT   FIRST. 


THE  PALM  TREE 

Once  in  a  garden  about  a  palm  tree's  shade,  some  blue  flowers, 
here  very  dark  and  there  very  light,  talked  with  each  other.  A 
poet  who  now  is  dead,  passed  by;  and  he  put  their  talk  into 
these  rhythms: 

O  Palm  Tree,  someone's  hand  has  cast  us  here; 
Was  it  the  hand  led  by  a  cursed  Fate, 
Or  moved  by  mind  of  good  intent  ?     Who  knows  ? 
What  impulse  seized  us  from  the  cave  of  sleep 
Below  to  bring  us  to  the  surface  here  ? 
Is  it  a  savior's  or  destroyer's  power 
That  sets  us  motionless  beneath  thy  shade  ? 
And  is  thy  shade  the  shade  of  life  or  death  ? 

*  .  * 

The  glare  of  the  hot  sun  drowned  everything; 
Gluttonous  locusts  groped  for  food  about; 
And  then,  a  rain.     The  flowers,  that  had  drooped 
To  sleep,  awake  to  drink  the  drops  of  dew. 
And  then,  the  clear  sky's  festival  begins 
More  azure  than  before  to  spread  above  thee. 

£21 


222  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

Only  thy  trembling  crest  drops  here  and  there 
Some  large  and  shining  rain-pearls  on  the  earth. 


*  ^  * 
* 


The  garden  glitters  with  a  new-born  life; 
And  each  bird  dreams  it  is  a  nightingale; 
Only  from  thy  lone  heights  like  bullets  fall 
Thy  pearl-clear  drops,  and  oh,  the  pain  thereof! 
The  dew  drops  make  a  crown  for  everything; 
The  gurgling  waters  are  a  balm  to  all; 
Why  should  this  god-sent  goodness  of  all  things 
Be  blow  for  us  and  suffering  and  flame  ? 


*  ^  * 
* 


How  cruelly  thy  bullets  fall  and  smite! 
No  ear  above  and  not  an  eye  before  us ! 
Beneath  thy  shade  we  live;  thy  trunk  is  world 
To  us;  thy  crown,  a  star-spun  sky,  our  sky! 
K  thou  art  a  god  merciless,  reveal 
Thyself!     If  not,  but  nod  and  give  us  calm! 
Either  cease  slaying  us  one  by  one,  or  pour 
On  us  at  once  a  flood  to  drown  us  all! 


THE  PALM  TREE  223 

Our  pain  is  as  reward  and  treasure  found! 
The  golden  seal  of  harmony  has  stamped  us, 
And  while  Death  touches  us,  we  glory,  victors! 
We  tremble;  hail  O  rhythm's  thrice-sacred  tremor! 
A  worm  may  live  sunless  beneath  the  earth 
That  a  new  butterfly  of  silken  wings 
May  live  an  hour  of  perfect  life  and  die. 
The  wound's  gash  turns  into  a  living  fountain ! 

*  o.  * 
* 

Things  gray,  things  crystal,  myriad  hues  of  green, 
Gushings  of  fountains  clear,  and  caterpillars, 
Earth's  things  immovable,  air-sailing  ships. 
And  little  worms,  and  bees,  and  butterflies. 
Sweet  flower-grails  and  censers,  fondling  grass. 
The  moss-down's  countless  kisses,  echoes  from 
Below,  and  mandolins  ethereal, 
Leaves  quivering  and  lilies  languor-bringing! 


*     * 

* 


The  turtle-doves  know  not  what  you  know,  blossoms. 
The  chosen  things  of  beautiful  loves,  you ! 
Kisses  and  starts  and  wooings  of  the  boughs! 


2:24  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

The  birth  of  each  of  you  is  a  world's  dawn! 
You  know,  O  little  tearful  short-lived  things, 
You  know  pleasure's  and  joy's  eternities! 
We,  the  gold  garlands  wreathed  about  thy  root. 
Are  like  celestial  and  thoughtful  eyes! 

*  * 
* 

Blithe  flowers,  boughs  that  hang  with  blossoms  full, 

From  dandelions  to  the  chamaemele, 

You  may  be  like  the  glowing  coals  or  gems. 

Or  like  a  maiden's  rosy  cheeks  and  lips. 

Though  you,  like  hands,  may  open  full  or  empty, 

And  though  you  be  dawn's  smiles  or  evening's  candles, 

Or  the  fair  palaces  of  Fairy  Dew, 

The  gazing  eyes  are  we !     We  are  the  eyes ! 

*  * 
* 

Though  small  we  are,  a  great  world  hides  in  us; 

And  in  us  clouds  of  care  and  dales  of  grief 

You  may  descry;  the  sky's  tranquility; 

The  heaving  of  the  sea  about  the  ships 

At  evenings;  tears  that  roll  not  down  the  cheeks; 

And  something  else  inexplicable.     Oh, 


THE  PALM  TREE  225 

What  prison's  kin  are  we  ?     Who  would  believe  it  ? 
One,  damned,  and  godlike,  dwells  in  us;     and  she  is 
Thought! 

*  o.  * 
* 

Frolick,  and  form,  and  wanton  playfulness. 
And  some  unspoken  radiant  vanity. 
And  some  enrapturing  bewitching  charm, 
And  perfect  virgin  beauty  are  your  own! 
Fading  like  gods'  pale  images,  you  seem! 
Even  the  bird  sometimes  bows  to  your  grace! 
And  Nereids  wind-footed  fan  your  faces, 
O  roses  with  a  thousand  smiles  divine! 


*  ^  * 


A  god  commanded  it,  the  flower-haired  April! 

*'  O  flowing  fragrance,  change  to  brilliancy!  " 

Thus  you  are  scentless,  roses  of  Bengal; 

All  others'  perfume  is  bright  light  in  you. 

And  thou,  O  lily,  king  among  the  flowers. 

From  what  far  world  hast  thou  been  led  astray  ? 

Was  it  from  fragrance's  own  womb,  or  from 

The  whitest  star  ?     And  we,  O  Palm  ?     Who  knows ! 


226  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

River  ethereal  of  fragrance,  stay! 

Thou  hast  not  flowed  nor  watered  us  at  birth. 

We  said  to  fragrance:     "  Cease  thy  flowing  course; 

Well  not  from  us;  nor  be  our  breath!     Sink  deep 

Into  our  heart's  recesses;  close  thyseK 

Regardless  of  thy  perfume  in  our  soul! 

Then  seek  to  find  our  thought  and  live  with  it 

And  flow  from  it  as  honey  from  the  bee! 

*  * 

Bring  forth  from  the  rich  treasures  of  the  sun 
All  colors,  flowers,  and  deck  yourselves  with  them! 
We  said  unto  our  little  brothers:     "  Make 
Robes  of  the  heaven's  rainbow  for  your  raiment!  " 
And  to  ourselves  we  said:     "  Soul,  I 
Shall  let  aside  all  brilliance!     I  need  not 
Sunset  or  dawn;  enough  would  be  something 
Of  the  great  sea  and  of  the  heaven's  smile!  " 

*  ^  * 

Become  a  cloud,  O  great  Desire,  and  speak 
With  lightnings  and  with  thunders!     Rise,  a  lark. 
And  sing  and  soar  towards  a  new  starry  garden! 


THE  PALM  TREE  227 

Turn  all  thy  flooding  music  into  love, 
Mingle  with  it  all  children's  innocence 
And  all  the  beauty  that  is  thine;  still  thou 
Wilt  have  love's  shadow  only  but  not  love. 
For  love  shines,  burns,  illumines  quenchlessly ! 

*  * 
* 

The  garden  draws  life  from  a  triple  soul, 
A  soul  that  spreads  creeping  upon  the  earth 
With  roots  beneath  and  wings  above.     A  city. 
The  caterpillar  builds  in  its  great  depths; 
The  bird  builds  love  towards  heights  ethereal ! 
About  all  green  things  live  to  be  thy  slaves 
And  trimming  ornaments,  O  palm !     How  high 
Skyward  thou  raisest  thy  grace-moulded  body! 

*  * 
* 

No  ivy  limits  and  no  offshoot  mars 

Thy  trunk's  unchained  and  chiseled  nakedness; 

And  yet,  though  naked,  with  a  charm  dream-wrought 

Thou  coverest  the  alleys  of  the  garden. 

And  as  an  emblem  of  thy  reign,  a  crown 

Of  beams  pearl-born  and  silver-born  shines  bright 


228  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

As  it  hangs  trembling  from  thy  top,  O  palm. 
Oh  what  a  rhythm  governs  thy  form  divine! 


*     * 
* 


So  beautiful  is  not  the  cypress  young 

As  it  waves  towards  the  sky,  moved  by  the  breeze! 

So  beautiful  is  not  the  mossy  fountain 

That  sings  like  bard  and  nourishes  like  mother! 

So  beautiful  is  not  sunrise  or  sunset! 

Another  world's  day  hangs  from  thy  high  crest! 

So  beautiful  is  not  the  tranquil  lake! 

Gods  and  their  hymns  god-sung  are  at  thy  feet! 


*     * 
* 


Neither  an  angel's  shade  in  a  hermit's  cave, 
Nor  harmony's  voice  in  Night's  deep  silence. 
Nor  the  great  maker's  thought  just  as  it  dawns 
In  his  wide-fronted  heaven,  and  is  still 
A  maiden  dream  unyoked  before  it  finds 
A  dwelling  in  the  form  of  word  or  music, 
Color  or  marble!     None  of  these  is  like 
Thine  image  caught  and  mirrored  in  our  thought! 


THE  PALM  TREE  229 

Is  it  transparent  and  immortal  blood 

That  flows  in  thee,  or  sap  too  weak  to  wake  thee 

From  thy  long  spell  of  blind  and  voiceless  sleep 

Into  a  crystal  life's  fair  revelry  ? 

Is  thy  head's  crown  another's  counterfeit, 

Or  thine  own  locks  that  smitten  by  the  wind 

Become  stringed  lyres  to  sing  in  murmurs  sweet 

Of  the  world's  symphony  and  of  thy  beauty  ? 

*  ^  * 

Neither  thy  boughs  nor  locks  they  are,  but  wings 

That  thou  wouldst  ply  with  gentle  flutterings! 

Wings  ?     They  are  not,  though  they  become;  and  ever 

A  hunger  tortures  thee,  and  ever  thou 

Strugglest  to  enter  a  sublimer  world! 

Right,  left,  high,  far,  thou  seekest  a  fair  city. 

Some  sunlit  Athens,  and  standest  bent  on  flying 

With  swans  and  cranes  towards  the  azure  heavens. 

*  * 

* 

Art  thou  a  relic  of  a  dead  age  and  great, 

Or  the  first  dew  of  a  becoming  life  ? 

Now  some  Wood  Nymph  bound  within  thee  peeps  out 


230  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

Struggling  to  flow  into  the  light  about; 
And  now  thou  risest  like  the  column  last 
Of  an  old  temple  that  once  stood  in  Hellas. 
Evening  or  morning,  end  or  a  beginning, 
Something  binds  thee  to  skies  beyond  all  sight. 

*  ^  * 

Hosannas  from  thy  boughs  and  palm  leaves  flow, 
Hosannas  from  thy  royal  height,  as  prayer 
To  some  unknown  god's  charms,  who  passes  by 
Revealing  his  fair  godhead  first  to  thee. 
And  lo,  the  hillsides  answer  thine  hosannas! 
Oh,  what  thy  visions,  what  thy  secrets  are  ? 
Some  tremor,  from  new  heavens  wafted,  makes 
The  supple  flowers  and  green  leaves  quiver. 


*  ,  * 
* 


And  we  ?     The  migrant  bird  did  come  to  us; 
The  passing  wind  did  touch  us  with  its  wing; 
The  restless  brook  did  check  its  rapid  course; 
The  child  did  cast  on  us  his  guileless  glance; 
The  jonquil  proud  did  greet  us  with  a  nod; 
And  the  moon  did  look  down  to  see  us  here; 


THE  PALM  TREE  231 

And  all  beheld  our  surface;  none  our  depths! 
Thus  the  world  glided  over  us  and  vanished-! 


*  ^  * 
* 


Sweet  orange  blossoms,  what  asked  the  nightingales  ? 

What  would  the  dry  cicala  know  of  noontide  ? 

All  things  that  groan  from  the  great  depths  of  earth, 

All  songs  that  mount  exultant  to  the  stars. 

The  eating  moth's  faint  voice,  the  restless  cricket's. 

Perfumes  and  breezes,  creatures  lone  and  mated, 

All  things  that  fly  and  creep  and  bend  and  stoop, 

Something  they  know  of  thee  and  hide  it  from  us. 


*  ^  * 
* 


Within  our  breasts,  a  soul  of  storm  and  pitch 
Puts  into  our  minds  evil  thoughts  of  thee. 
The  magpie  chatters  long  to  the  night  bat 
Of  thee;  the  locust  boasts  she  is  like  thee; 
The  wasp  draws  ample  pleasure  in  thy  shelter; 
And  the  night  raven  finds  delight  in  thee. 
A  world  of  evil  and  of  scorn  lies  wait 
For  thee  who  mountest  tranquil  to  the  stars. 


232  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

O  Health  blown  from  the  heart  of  the  pure  pine! 
Where  thy  feet  tread,  fruits  grow  'midst  thorns  and 

clover; 
If  with  the  streams  thou  flowest,  the  elements 
Shine;  for  pure  wine,  thou  reapest  the  fair  clusters; 
And  where  thou  lingerest,  a  city  rises! 
Thy  breasts  flow  ever  with  milk;  thy  lips  with  dew! 
O  mother  fruitful,  strong,  and  whole,  some  ill 
Rots  us  and  we  are  pale  like  death's  faint  tapers! 

*  ^  * 

Boughs,  tresses,  wings;  shadows  whose  grace  divine 
Frolics  and  spreads  as  bough  or  tress  or  wing; 
Another  night,  you  took  another  form 
In  the  enchanted  pitiless  moonlight, 
A  form  that  was  neither  bough,  tress,  nor  wing: 
Swords  you  seemed,  ready  to  descend  and  smite! 
Night's  roaming  butterfly,  be  merciful! 
Lift  us  upon  thy  wings  and  fly  away! 

*  ^  * 

Illness  and  wakefulness  have  tortured  us, 
O  palm,  and  we  saw  thee  bend  secretly ! 


THE  PALM  TREE  233 

The  dragon's  heads  and  dogwoods  were  awake; 
We  saw  thee  leading  a  strange  dance  with  them 
At  night;  and  in  our  first  sleep,  we  beheld  thee 
A  heavy  dream  roaming  with  mulleins  and 
Chameleons;  about  thee  closed  whole  gardens 
Of  thistles,  aloes  hard,  and  hosts  of  briars! 

*  ^  * 

We  dreamed  and  lo,  thou  wert  demanding  tribute 
Of  life,  blood-drenched;  and  in  thy  being  raged 
A  savage  hunger;  and  some  beast  flesh-eating 
Nestled  in  thee  and  gnawed  a  hole  through  thee; 
And  thy  winged  body  turned  into  a  cave; 
A  vulture  perched  as  crown  upon  thy  head; 
And  like  fire-flames,  and  sea-waves,  and  sword-blades. 
From  root  to  top,  fierce  snakes  crept  up  and  coiled! 

*  u.  * 

Who  ever  thought  of  it  ?     What  Fate  has  ruled 
That  from  ill-smelling  things  and  worthless  stuff 
Should  rise  things  of  resplendent  green  ?  and  from 
Deforming  filth,  the  thrice-pure  miracle 
Of  May  and  April  ?     Hence  things  blue  and  black 


234  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

Mingle  in  us;  and  in  our  souls,  spread  oceans 
And  narrow  paths;  and  while  our  minds  converse 
With  things  sublime,  something  thrice-base  defiles  us! 

*  ^  * 
* 

O  Sun,  assail  and  strangle  all  black  dreams. 
Our  life's  dim  vapors  and  ill- working  demons ! 
But  nourish  all  things  good  and  beautiful 
Like  sunbeams  playing  and  like  nightingales! 
And  thou,  O  moon,  spread  over  savage  Night 
A  veil  translucent  of  heart-felt  sympathy! 
Wave  everywhere,  0  Beauty's  purple  robe! 
Let  the  great  world  be  love  and  love's  sweet  lyre! 

Day  comes!     Light  scatters  a  thousand  eyes  on  thee 
So  that  thou  mayest  greet  the  woods  and  mountains. 
The  nests  upon  the  trees,  the  palaces 
Of  cities,  and  the  ships  on  open  seas 
Or  ports.     At  nights,  mounted  on  steeds  of  light 
Beautiful  Fairies  come  from  high  to  serve  thee; 
The  poplar  lifts  its  many  hands  to  thee; 
And  the  dark  cypresses  lull  thee  to  sleep. 


THE  PALM  TREE  235 

With  pelicans  and  eagles  thou  conversest, 
And  drop  by  drop  thou  drinkest  the  world's  music; 
Thou  seest  things  far,  things  near,  and  things  above; 
Things  infinite,  intangible,  and  great; 
And  thou  communest  with  air-sailing  ships. 
Light-rays,  and  wings,  and  the  world-mounting  ladder; 
While  we,  bent  low,  and  lashed  by  sorrow's  whip. 
Listen  to  the  great  throbbing  of  Earth's  heart! 


*  ^  * 


We  heard  it,  the  great  throbbing  of  Earth's  heart. 
The  new  song  inconceivable,  unheard. 
Of  consummate  and  perfect  sound! 
Through  it,  some  thunder-stricken  angel  groans; 
All  April's  gardens  breathe  in  fragrant  balms; 
Some  unfulfilled  and  secret  longings  weep; 
And  a  fire  crackles  that  will  ruin  worlds ! 
Something  that  passes  by,  an  endless  riddle! 


*     * 
* 


Tell  thou  the  sunlit  story  of  the  air; 

We  shall  unroll  to  you  the  tale  of  blackness. 

Come,  let  us  mingle  the  two  elements, 


236  KOSTES  PALAMAS 

Thy  mighty  power  with  our  own  winning  grace ! 
In  unseen  places,  small  and  cold  and  sunless, 
A  world  of  workers  and  of  corsairs  dwell; 
And  there  are  paths  and  deeds  of  theirs,  and  days. 
And  what  the  infinite  air-spheres  have  not! 

*  ^  * 

A  swarm  of  bees  has  told  us  of  their  life, 

And  a  new  youth  and  wise  shone  unto  us! 

The  grass  hides  unsuspected  miracles; 

Beside  us,  the  ant  opens  a  deep  path; 

A  lizard,  slowly  creeping  from  below, 

Brought  us  here  news  of  countries,  nations,  arts; 

A  butterfly  on  her  swift  flight  to  wed 

The  little  flowers  broadened  our  world  of  thought! 

*  * 
* 

Un wedded,  fruitless  Palm,  fair  mystery ! 
Strange  was  the  hour  —  who  will  believe  it  now  ?  - 
The  divine  world  willed  to  become  a  thought. 
And  thought  revealed  itself  unto  our  mind! 
Now,  imto  darkness  and  to  riddles  new, 
Our  little  life  is  ready  to  depart! 


THE  PALM  TREE  237 

O  Palm,  make  answer;  lo,  before  thou  speakest 
Thy  word  sublime,  a  hand  lays  wait  to  smite! 

*  * 
* 

O  Palm,  a  hand  did  spread  to  sow  us  here; 
That  hand  will  spread  again  to  root  us  out. 
And  we  shall  die!     The  billow  and  the  wind 
And  the  still  waters  will  sweep  us  away 
Mercilessly!     The  flowery  spring  will  not 
Lament  us!     The  wide  world  will  never  know 
We  perished !    And  beneath  thy  shadow's  charms. 
Another  fragrant  race  will  rise  to  life. 

*  ^  * 

Nor  will  there  be  a  monument  for  us 

That  might  retain  the  phantom  of  our  passing! 

Only  about  thee  will  a  robe  of  light 

Adorn  thee  with  a  new  and  deathless  gleam : 

And  it  shall  be  our  thought,  and  word,  and  rime! 

And  in  the  eves  of  an  astonished  world. 

Thou  wilt  appear  like  a  gold-green  new  star; 

Yet  neither  thou  nor  others  will  know  of  us! 

1900. 


PBrNTED  AT 

THE  HABVARD  UNIVEBSITT  PRESS 

CAMBRIDGE,  MASS.,  U.S.A. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 
THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 


LD 

mi 


AUG  2   71 

AUG  2     19 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 

MM  2  3  1962 
SEP   2  0  196? 


ma ' 

APR  2  5 1963 


Form  I.0-157n-3,'34 


SSaSBSSJ-- 


'^'^    000  436  954 


P 


3  n58  00503"?g'g^ 


